


Next Time Please Dodge the Bullets, Don't Catch Them

by Redcap64



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Abandonment, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, But Not Really a Loss of Friendship, Dehydration, Hurt/Comfort, Knives and Blood, Loneliness, Loss of Faith, Pain, Post-Betrayal, Psychological Torture, Slave Trade, Starvation, Torture, Twisted Games of Pain, Violence, Whump, loss of friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:25:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcap64/pseuds/Redcap64
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hung limply from the chains that held him suspended slightly above the ground, making his body numb with pain. Blood dripped rhythmically to the floor, drawing a small smile from his lips. Soon. Soon the pain would be gone. The pain in his body and, most importantly, the pain of betrayal in his heart. At least when he was dead he would have peace, but would they think of him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy and please comment and kudos it!
> 
> Some of the beginning ideas for this fic come from Cast Aside by the lovely celticgal1041, so I just wanted to give her a quick shout out and thank her for inspiring this plot.

The pauldron dropped to the ground with a resounding thud, silencing the whispered hisses that drifted toward him from the mass of Musketeers, punctuated occasionally by snarled jeers that stabbed at d'Artagnan more sharply than a sword. The violent sounds echoed around his head, bouncing from one silently shouted plea to the other - _please, this wasn’t supposed to happen; please, don’t send me away; please, I’m sorry._

_Please, I need you._

With each word, his hopes died, crumbling at his feet in the onslaught of incoherent babbling. The loss of the Musketeers tore at his heart, but it was the gut-wrenching looks that had rolled off the faces of the only people in the world he could truly call family - Athos, Porthos and Aramis - that bit at him rabidly, clawing apart his insides; a hungry dog attacking his final meal.

Without looking back, d'Artagnan strode from the compound, managing to hold himself together long enough to round the corner of the garrison and have it drop out of sight.  _Brothers_  - so much for that. A dry laugh escaped his lips, drawing the eyes of those on the street and causing them to inch out of his way. His assaulted mind was crumbling, memories of what had transpired back in the courtyard playing on repeat: the men turning against him with a shuddering finality.

Betrayal. He laughed louder as angry tears slipped from his eyes, no longer able to fight them off. Blood welled against his tongue, seeping out from where he had bitten through his cheek in an attempt to make the pain something physical, something real. This had not been his idea, not in the beginning. It was something he had never dreamed of. Treville had  _known_  - had set the whole plan in motion - and still d'Artagnan was thrown from the compound without a backward glance. Yes, he had played beyond the bounds of his conscious, but he had done it for the mission, for the ultimate goal. His brothers, though - his family - they had become the final nail in his coffin-like existence. The mingling of disbelief and shock, the sickening understanding that had been brought about by Treville’s sentencing; instantly they had doubted him, had refused to believe that he could have even a sliver of innocence, a reason for his actions. It sliced into d'Artagnan's heart and tore apart the trust that he had been so careful to cultivate for the three men.

Turning away from the cobbled streets that brought him closer to the middle of town, d’Artagnan worked his way toward the outskirts of the city, pulling his coin purse from his pocket as he went. Fighting back another wave of pitiful abandonment, d’Artagnan sifted through the purse, separating the coins into small piles in his hands. If he spent his money well, he had enough for an - admittedly very bad - horse and a few meals’ worth of food. It would have to do. They would be looking for him soon - scouring the streets for any sign of him - and he needed to make his escape before they found him.

He could head west, back to his home and what was left of the burned remains of his farm, or maybe south, down into Spain. He had picked up a few words of Spanish from Aramis and it would be easy to get lost among the masses of people that populated the cities. Shifting his purse back into the folds of his clothing, d’Artagnan’s hand brushed against a crumpled piece of paper, crushed deep into the corner of his pocket. Pulling it out, he let out a melancholy snort. It was a letter, signed ‘Henri’ and dated almost three weeks previous. The seal was broken and the pages crushed, but d’Artagnan had read it enough times that he could repeat it back by heart.

_D’Artagnan,_

_Your aid requested. Bandits. Please help._

_Your loving Uncle,_

_Henri_

There was an address, scrawled hurriedly on the back of the paper, and then nothing. A _loving_ letter from a _loving_ uncle, from whom d’Artagnan had not heard in over ten years: not since the death of his mother and a family dispute that ended in anger and avoidance. D’Artagnan had never known why, but he hadn’t pushed it either. Something had always felt… off when he was around his uncle.

Steering through the streets of Paris - streets that he had barely begun to feel comfortable in - d’Artagnan stopped at a small food cart on the corner of the road, grabbing a small armload of rations, barely enough to last two days. It was decided, then. With no food and no other logical plan, the only thing he could do - the only thing that made sense - was to go visit his uncle and lend help where he could. Bitterly, d’Artagnan mused that he would much rather have brought reinforcements along - people that he trusted to watch his back - but now, he would be lucky to find a horse that was able to carry him the two days’ ride up to his uncle’s farm. He had asked Treville weeks before for a small leave to determine that his uncle was alright, but his request had been denied, his work deemed “too important” to be left hanging and unfinished - loose ends and all - for a couple days off. D’Artagnan had bit his tongue and kept on with his mission, forgetting - eventually and regrettably - his uncle’s plea.

But now; now he would be able to help. Help and hide all at once, taking time to plan his next move, slowly and methodically - so at odds with his normal behavior, so in tune with what Athos had been trying to teach him since d’Artagnan had been taken under his wing all those months ago.

He was nearing the outskirts of Paris now, the taverns and stalls and inns and brothels making way for a forge, a small farm, a stable, a house. A horse, face marred and eye missing, jutted its head over the edge of a fence, his old, matted mane tangled from years of neglect. D’Artagnan needed an escape from Paris, anything to put distance between the broken pieces of his life; and a horse, beaten down by the world as much as d’Artagnan was, would make as good a companion as anyone else. It chafed against his instincts, tearing even more forcefully into his already aching mind, but d’Artagnan moved silently to the steps of the house, emptying his money purse at the stoop of the drooping wooden door, before swinging open the horse’s enclosure and mounting the beast, a plodding, lifeless trot being pulled from the animal with the sheer force of d’Artagnan’s misery.

“I knew this was coming,” d’Artagnan ground out bitterly, pushing the old horse into a canter. “If I’m honest, the signs have been there since the beginning. Wouldn’t you agree… Jacques? Yes, that suits you just fine.” He paused and scanned the road for any signs of life. “But you do agree, don’t you? It’s been more than clear ever since I started that assignment.” He trailed off, lost in thought.

He recalled, even this morning, the uncanny energy between the three men, whole conversations shared with a single look, bodies shifting imperceptibly to account for the slightest of movements from each other. D’Artagnan was off to the side, the empty bench warmed by his presence as the only family he knew sparred before him - laughing, dancing - while he remained behind: tired, sore, the last to be let in on the joke, the last to be invited to join. He had pushed aside the feeling, always forcing himself to participate - always uninvited. Glances shared above him danced in his head: Aramis, suggesting dinner while d’Artagnan slipped onto the scene without invitation; conversations stuttering to a halt when he stumbled his way to the breakfast table each morning to eat; head count finding d’Artagnan last to be looked at, last to be questioned about his well-being.

The dark pit that had become his existence after the loss of his father had been gone, months of compassion and love and friendship filling the empty places inside of him until his body had been patched back together: whole, important. It wasn't as though he didn’t matter, d'Artagnan reasoned; it was only that he ranked lowest on the internal radar of the three men he had grown to cherish almost as much as the man who had given him life and passion and wisdom, the man who had shaped d’Artagnan into who he was today.

D’Artagnan lurched forward on Jacques’ back as he came to a sudden halt, planted firmly in the middle of the road like a tree. Cursing, d'Artagnan looked around as he tried to urge the horse onward. He knew he was heading in the right direction, but his exact location was a mystery. Sliding from the horse’s body with an angry grunt, d’Artagnan gauged the last solitary minutes of the sun before it sank below the horizon. Ushering the horse into a grassy clearing near the side of the road, d’Artagnan dropped what little possessions he held on his person and collapsed to the ground.

He just needed to sleep, rest his eyes and look at everything with a new light in the morning.

He eyed Jacques through slitted lids - “If you abandon me, I shall never forgive you. Don’t run off.” - and rolled onto his side.

The way his whole life had been going, the horse would be gone by morning.

* * *

 Bitter sunlight ate away the fog that hung like a specter upon the ground, blanketing the forest floor in a cloud of misery. Weary and emptier than the night before, d’Artagnan heaved himself to his feet, his legs leaden. His body ached and he had nothing but a mouthful of bread before he was seated once more upon Jacques’ back, the miles left between his uncle and he shaved away under the lulling clop, clop of hooves. He consumed his meals as he rode, pausing only long enough to allow his horse to rest and grab a few mouth fulls of water whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The sun rose, higher and hotter and more malicious as the day wore on, a total opposition of everything that d’Artagnan was feeling. He slid down from Jacques’ back, choosing to walk beside the slowly flagging animal as they continued forward. It would be well past nightfall before he stumbled upon his uncle’s hometown. He was traveling forward with only distant memories to guide his way, and he hoped that all his father had mentioned of his uncle throughout the years was true, at least the portions that related to his location.

The faintest sliver of moon lit his path as d’Artagnan inched his way forward in the dark, pulling to a stop outside a small, well kept cottage on the edge of town. He had talked, fleetingly, to another traveler that had crossed his path, and luck - something that d’Artagnan sorrily lacked - smiled down upon him. The man’s reaction, cautious and very nearly afraid when d’Artagnan mentioned the name Henri, set d’Artagnan slightly on edge, but the man had known enough to confirm that d’Artagnan was going in the right direction and suspicion was something that d’Artagnan’s heart could not afford to hold.

Sliding onto the ground, his feet making almost no noise against the pavement, d'Artagnan settled in front of the door, trying to arrange his features into something that did not resemble a man on the run, fighting the demons of betrayal. And if his Uncle did not need him anymore? He paused. What then? He had no second option, no plan B. He forced his hand forward, the hollow sound of his knocking swallowed by the darkness that had engulfed his thoughts.

Silence greeted him, stretching for long minutes into the night, broken only by the pawing of Jacques’ hoof against the ground and the creaking of the wooden steps beneath his weight. Without warning, the door swung open slightly, a deep blue eye peering out from the depths of the house, the pale light of the moon reflecting off the glassy surface. The two men - family by blood, strangers by circumstance - stared each other down, suspicion and fear filling them both, neither knowing where one emotion began and the other ended.

“Charles?” The whisper rumbled from the man’s chest as the door was pulled open even further, a small, portly fellow cast into the light. The sound of his uncle’s voice pulled forward long forgotten thoughts. Warm food and baking bread, days under the heat of the sun, working and laughing and being loved. His mother; soft and gently and caring, and then not, now fragile and sick and dying.

"Hello, Uncle.” D’Artagnan tried to appear as though the sight of his uncle was not like a physical blow to his body.

“It is so good to see you, my boy. Have you finally come to help? And where is everybody else?” he peered over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, his smile dropping from his face when it became apparent that there was nobody in the vicinity.

D’Artagnan had not though of this, had not assumed that his help alone was not what Henri had requested.

“I have finally come to offer my help. I received your letter some weeks ago and have only just been offered the opportunity to come down and assist you.” D’Artagnan shifted awkwardly. “If the problem has already been solved…” He trailed off, rubbing at the pommel of his sword.

“Oh no, not a soul has come to help. Come in, come in.” Henri swung the door open even wider, ushering d’Artagnan inside. Looking over his shoulder, he called into the depths of the room, “François, come take d’Artagnan’s bag and put his horse up in the stables.”

A small boy with mousy hair appeared out of the kitchen, cheeks red. He rushed out the door and went straight to work.

“He’s the son of one of the families in town. They’ve fallen on hard times, grown ever worse by the work of the bandits, and I’ve offered him some work in exchange for a small sum of money.” D’Artagnan nodded and watched as Jacques was lead off into the night. “Now, come into the kitchen and have a seat. I’ll put on some tea and we can talk.”

D’Artagnan trailed behind his Uncle, taking in the decor around him. The house was modest, but looked to be in good condition, clean and fully furnished. Henri had done well for himself then. Trade maybe? This was not the living quarters of a farmer.

“I had expected you to bring some other men with you,” Henri continued on conversationally. “This task is immense, especially for one man to take on alone. The village has had no luck defending itself, and I had deeply hoped that the King’s soldiers would scare the fear of God back into these men.”

“I may not have the might of a hundred soldiers, but I most certainly have the skill of a well trained musketeer. I am sure that I will be of some assistance.” D’Artagnan settled himself down at the table, gratefully accepting the bread and cheese that was placed before him. “What, exactly, is the issue?”

Henri sobered immediately, his happy smile from before slipping from his face.

“There is a man, Fernand is his name, nephew of the recently deceased Comte de Gerard. He has a small group of men that follow him, doing his dirty work when he is to lazy to get his own hands dirty.” Henri’s lips pulled back slightly. “Since he has come to power, his men have taken to terrorizing the village and surrounding farms, my own land included. The suffering here is immense. Anyone who stands against him is brought down brutally or dragged away in the middle of the night. It is… unfathomable, the lengths to which this man will go to control the people here.” He paused, face pensive. “That is why I called you to help.”

“And where do these people live?”

“Surely, you cannot still mean to go out in search of Fernand? The risk! You are my only living relative.” Henri shook his head regretfully. “Why I even asked fro you to come I do not know.”

D’Artagnan ground his teeth. This was something that he could do, something that he could make right in the midst of so much wrong. “You said you need help and I shall offer it. Where does Fernand live?”

Henri sighed, but answer. “Over the dip in the hillside, in the old manor of the Comte’s.”

“Then I shall go in the morning.”

“And there is nothing I can do to dissuade you of this notion?”

“No.” The answer was firm, commanding.

“Then you had best be off to bed. A good nights rest will do you well. You look half dead on your feet as it is, son.”

When Henri rose the next morning, d’Artagnan was gone.

* * *

 Jacques’ head bucked as d'Artagnan looped the end of his reins over a tree on the outskirts of Fernand's property, trying desperately to free himself.

"What is wrong with you this morning?" With a sharp jerk on the reins, d'Artagnan tied Jacques tightly to the tree, giving the leather a sharp tug to make sure that the knot wouldn’t come undone. The horse flicked his head again, testing the resistance of the branch. Checking the fastenings on his weapons belt, d'Artagnan moved toward the manor, his mind dwelling only on his sleepless night, an agonizingly slow ticking away of seconds that had offered him nothing but time to play again and again the events of the night before. The loneliness had grown, a hungry monster upon his chest, until he had to stand up for fear of being suffocated under the weight. He had already been awake; there had been no reason for him to wait until morning before he left.

He rolled the kinks out of his neck as he walked, frowning, his body stiff from the hours he had spent watching the house. From what he could gather, each entrance to the house contained two guards at all times, shifts rotating exactly every two hours. There were three entrances, and no reoccurring faces, which meant that at least twenty men were on the grounds at any given time, fully armed and itching for a fight if their boredom was anything to go by. D’Artagnan sighed. Henri was right; the chances of him making even the slightest of differences was, well, small to say the least.

D’Artagnan shook his head, trying to dislodge the faint sound of Athos’ voice playing over and over in the back of his mind. _You have natural talent, but too often you let your emotions run away with you._ He grimaced. Then he just had to hope that his talent was enough to see him through the day. He had always been a rather skilled liar; at least until two days ago, when every lie that he had ever seemed to tell piled up around him, until he was buried six feet under.

The sun's rays bit through the early morning mist, sending multicolored splashes of light dancing across the ground all around d'Artagnan. He drew closer to the house, now able to make out the manor in even finer detail, impressed even after months serving in the castle. Three stories tall and made entirely of white stone, the building was covered with intricate carvings and sculptures, oddly out of place in a village so far from any French nobility. Gold detailing lined the bricks, the steps, the windows, and the expensive marble of the walkway leading up to the heavy mahogany door set d’Artagnan’s teeth on edge. A large fountain blocked d’Artagnan from view as he approached, but eventually he skirted the polished stone basin, drawing loud shouts from the guards as he was spotted. _Not the best security then._

He took another step before he stopped, both hands raised in the air.

“Three muskets is a bit much, don’t you think?”

The guards ignored him, waiting.

A large man, neck the size of d’Artagnan’s thigh, walked around from the back of the house, another two men trailing behind him. “Who are ya?”

"My name is d'Artagnan of the King's musketeers. I wish to speak with the new Comte, Fernand, about reports of banditry that has befallen this area. I have recently been informed that he has taken over his father's holdings." He tried to sound as unaccusing as possible. The man eyed him speculatively, stare intense, before nodding and gesturing for his men to lower their weapons. He gestured toward the entrance to the manor, the other men falling in around d’Artagnan until he was being herded up the steps.

A skinny guad with lanky black hair banged his hand against the door, leaving behind a small smear of mud. The men around d’Artagnan shifted, before one hissed quietly: “André, clean that up before Fernand sees.”

André paled, reaching with an equally grubby sleeve to rub at the dirt, doing nothing but spreading the mess in an ever widening circle. D’Artagnan watched, silent but confused. Honestly, it was only dirt. Looking around, he noticed for the first time how incredibly white and clean everything was. The door swung open, drawing back d’Artagnan’s eyes and making even more blood drain from André’s face.

A sparkling entranceway could be seen behind a man with nicely pressed clothes and neatly trimmed beard. He was simple, practical, elegant.

D’Artagnan bent low, sweeping his cloak behind him. Nobility was nobility; there was protocol to follow.

“Comte de Fernand, I presume?" d’Artagnan asked, but the man was not even looking at him, eyes trained instead on the sullied door. André seemed to shrink into himself, growing even smaller.

"How many times have I told you to not mar my lands with your filth?" The question was conversational, light, but it was obvious he did not want an answer - obvious, at least, to d’Artagnan.

"Three, m'lord."

The man’s eyes narrowed. "It is evident that your mother never taught you to listen; such a waste. I must teach you myself."

André shook his head furiously. D’Artagnan feared that if he did not stop is would fall from his shoulders. "P-please m'lord, it won’t happen again."

Fernand grinned. "No need to be so afraid, André. It will barely hurt at all." He shifted his eyes to another one of the guards, tall and blocky in stature. "Take him to the cellar. And don't worry about giving him one of the cleaner rooms." André squeaked, but said nothing, following the other guard around the side of the house.

The man turned toward d’Artagnan as soon as André disappeared from sight, his face warm and welcoming. "Sorry for the delay." His voice was clam, soothing. "I had to take care of a bit of, well, _housekeeping_." D'Artagnan's skin crawled. Was it too late to turn back now? "You were indeed correct; I am Fernand - and who might you be?" The question was innocent, but d'Artagnan felt as though there was a threat behind the words. Was this what his friends betrayal had gotten him? Suspicion and distrust?

Once again, d’Artagnan introduced himself. "My name is d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers and I have come regarding the reports of banditry that have made their way to the castle. I was hoping you might be able to aid my fellow musketeers and me in our investigation?" Better to pretend he had numbers behind him. Fernand's smile slipped a fraction of a second before sliding firmly back into place.

"And where are the rest of you?"

A calculated look entered Fernand’s eyes, and d’Artagnan shifted his hand closer to his sword. Maybe he was right to have been suspicious.

“About a day's ride out. I was sent ahead to scout the area. One of the villagers told me you might be willing to aid the king. If nothing else, I would like to make sure that you understand the severity of banditry. It is a crime punishable by death." The double meaning was clear. "I am only here to assist those in the village."

Fernand nodded, relaxing, and d'Artagnan eased his stance slightly. "I regret to inform you that I have no idea what banditry you speak of. However, if anything should come to my attention, I will be sure to send for you as soon as possible. Where is it that you are staying?"

D’Artagnan schooled his features into a relieved expression. Porthos would be proud: poker had never really been one of d'Artagnan's specialties. _Except, Porthos will never know, will he?_ "I’m staying down at the inn until the others arrive.” He smiled. _Did his expression look strained?_ “Please, don’t hesitate to contact me if anything is amiss."

Fernand nodded in agreement. "Certainly, and thank you for informing me of this, truly. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very busy schedule for the day and must be going. I will have Bernard here escort you to the road." He gestured toward the thick necked guard that had spoken to d’Artagnan earlier.

D’Artagnan nodded, unusually relieved to be on his way. "Thank you for the accompaniment. I do hope to hear from you soon."

“Most definitely.”

Bernard fell in step behind him as d'Artagnan moved down the polished stairs. A dark feeling nipped at his heels as they walked. D’Artagnan knew that any man would be foolish to attack a musketeer with more on the way, but that didn’t mean that Fernand had not seen through the lie, had not suspected.

If only help really was traveling hours behind him. But dwelling on that was wasteful, ignorant. No one was coming, not now. He was no musketeer, no part of the brotherhood that had become his family. Somehow, d’Artagnan felt more alone than he had even after the death of his father.

D’Artagnan noticed the rush of air behind him too late as something swung toward his head. He moved to duck, but he had wasted precious moments lost in thought. The object caught him above the temple, dropping him like a stone. His vision blurred, faded in and out.

A voice laughed above him. "If they're all like this pup, they'll be easy to pick off."

* * *

 His back scraped roughly against the uneven terrain. Voices floated around him:

"I wonder what’s gonna happen to André."

"Who knows; just be glad you’re not him."

"I thank the Lord every day I'm not that ugly."

D’Artagnan heard a rumble of laughter, and then nothing; blackness.

* * *

 A gate clanged. D’Artagnan jerked awake.

"… or neck?"

"Arms for now, you know how Fernand always like them to be alive when he gets down here."

D'Artagnan groaned quietly. "Bernard, he’s waking."

"Well then, we best make this as painful as possible."

D'Artagnan’s eyes flew open as he was hauled aggressively toward a pair of chains that dropped from the roof of what looked to be a small cellar. His head pounded, the light that leaked into the room making his eyes water. First one arm and then the other was wrenched behind d'Artagnan's back and up towards his head, his wrists encased in iron manacles behind him. He hissed quietly in pain, trying to cut off the sound before either of the men heard him.

"Look at the boy, thinks he's tough."

"Bet you 20 livre he breaks by tomorrow night."

"I say he lasts till the end of the week."

Grinning, the men shook hands before Bernard reached for something just out of d’Artagnan’s view. He could hear the clanking of chains and knew, somehow, exactly what was going to happen. With a pull, d’Artagnan’s arms were dragged high above his head, forcing him off of his knees and into a crouch in an effort to relieve some of the weight that now rested entirely on his shoulders. His body hung over his knees, his legs trembling.

He fought the darkness for a moment, two, and then once more there was blackness.

* * *

 A scream echoed through d’Artagnan’s cell, pulling him from unconsciousness. His head banged, beaten leather resting over the barrel of a drum. His room was black, a night with no moon, and d’Artagnan thanked small mercies for the lack of light. It was cold, the scent of mildew in the air, and d’Artagnan shivered, frozen.

Another scream. Barely muffled by the stone walls around him. His head jerked up, tugging at his shoulders, pain radiating up his back and down his arms, into the the very core of his joints. He tried to shift his weight, tried to move into a more comfortable position, but his legs had gone numb while he was under, and had no hope of moving them. He was surprised they still supported his weight.

Again the screaming, until it was cut off abruptly, the silence somehow louder in the deep black of the cell.

Voices bled through the quiet, moving closer, until a loud squeak shattered the it altogether as the door swung open. The light filtered into the room, dim, almost nonexistent, but blinding nonetheless, distracting d’Artagnan from the muffled thump of something heavy falling to the floor.

He barely managed to open his eyes before the door was shut once more, but even in the newfound darkness, d’Artagnan could see André, body lifeless and staring, burned into his mind.

D’Artagnan’s skin crawled; the darkness a thousand insects eating away at his skin. He dropped his head once more, empty.

Was he going to die like this? In the cold and the dark? Lonely and alone and so, so tired?

God, what he wouldn’t give for one more moment with his friends, one last drink or joke or meal. He laughed bitterly. To be betrayed by those you love and to still need them, still long for them.

How weak could he be?

His laughter chocked off into nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Traitor.

The word hung like an empty vow; the promise of a thousand lies, all now drowning in the murky pit called honesty. Athos could not force his mind to wrap around the sounds that Treville let fall from his lips. He could not process the silence that was d'Artagnan's reply; the hunched, vulnerable, _betrayed_ shape of Porthos’ body; the trembling hand of reassurance that Aramis rested against Porthos' arm.

_Traitor._

_D'Artagnan._

_Slave trade._

The words didn't fit together in his head, jumbling around and forming sentences that should never have even been thought. He could have sworn he heard Treville string them all into a few angry lines. Could have sworn they had said something that couldn't possibly be true.

_Slave trade._

_D'Artagnan._

_Traitor._

Gnawing guilt chewed vicious holes through the lining in his stomach, a notched bayonet ripping through him from the inside out. Why could he not say anything in defense against the words that were thrown harshly at the newest and dearest addition to the group? Why could he not completely ignore the sense of betrayal that settled like a heavy cloud over his mind? Why was d'Artagnan not _saying_ anything?

"We have a traitor in our midst." That's what had been said. "One among you has been privately profiting from the sale of slaves." Even the word made Athos' stomach churn. "D'Artagnan, your trial will be in the morning." His heart had stopped.

_We have a traitor in our midst._

_Traitor in our midst._

_Traitor._

_D'Artagnan._

God, he needed a drink. Needed that mindless numb feeling; the forgetful feeling; the _nothingness_ feeling. He was vaguely aware of movement from where d'Artagnan was standing before. A thud amplified a thousand times around the silent training grounds. A sense of loss that he hadn't felt since- no, he did not need to think about that now.

_Traitor._

_D'Artagnan._

_D'Artagnan is a traitor._

_Slaves._

_D'Artagnan is a traitor selling slaves._

_Gone._

_D'Artagnan is go-_

"Athos! Athos, he's gone. He's _gone_ , Athos." The blanket disappeared, pulled swiftly from around his mind. Aramis was shaking his shoulder. "Athos, pay attention. What's wrong with you? We have to go get him. We have to go talk to Treville. He won't come back if he thinks we believed what Treville said, even for a moment."

"’E'd never ‘ave done it." Porthos’ determined voice somehow calmed Athos down, making him kickstart his brain. Porthos still looked shocked, but there was a certain resolve in the set of his shoulders that made him look more sure of himself than he ever had before. "You saw 'em when we 'ad Bonnaire; 'e was as disgusted as the lot o' us."

That was true, _beyond_ true. D’Artagnan has been repulsed. Shocked. Horrified. Not that he had let the rest of them see that; at least, not as far has he had been aware. But they had known; all of them could tell from the set of his shoulders and the clench in his jaw. Even after knowing d'Artagnan for only a short time, he had already managed to latch onto them, burrowing into their hearts. And then after, when the house was burning and Athos was dying inside and Milady was coming back to life and Athos was still _dying_ inside, d'Artagnan was there, dragging him from the flames, holding him as he cried, listening to the sad story that was Athos’ life. Finding for Athos a new reason to live, a reason to continue on, a reason called d'Artagnan. The little brother that he had never wanted, but suddenly needed. A life line that lessened the pain of the world. A drug that replaced the alcohol-hazed mind that he always craved. A glue that drew the three older men even closer together. A younger brother who was theirs to protect and to comfort and to watch over.

A younger brother who was gone.

"We must go and speak with Treville." The words left Athos with force; a command from a leader bent on protecting his soldiers. "We need to understand the charges and prove that they are false. We must find d'Artagnan. Aramis, see if Constance knowns anything about what is happening here. Porthos, you know the city better than any of us; try and catch him before he does something foolish and disappears. I'll go speak with Treville." His two companions nodding, they turned in opposite directions and moved forward, determined. They would not allow such false charges to stand against their newest member, especially one so close to their hearts.

* * *

 "Do you think he did it?" The words were out of Aramis’ mouth before he could contain them. A small ember of doubt burned just below the surface of his thoughts, eating away at his certainty that d'Artagnan was innocent. He was sure that Treville was mistaken, but what had led Treville to say those things to begin with? What had caused him to accuse d'Artagnan of such a crime? Was it possible that Aramis was blinded by his love for his youngest brother?

"O' course 'e didn't do it." Porthos’ gruff voice soothed Aramis' racing thoughts, helping to quell the nauseating theories that had begun to form. "Treville is mistaken. I don't know what 'e's gotten 'imself into, but we're gonna get 'im out of it just as quick."

Unwavering loyalty was something that Aramis had always admired in Porthos, something that he wished he was able to dole out as freely as his closest friend. Countless betrayals were a thing that Aramis had grown to accept, and with that acceptance came a loss of trust. He trusted d'Artagnan, truly he did, but he also trusted Treville and d'Artagnan _had_ been gone quite often the last few months. Disappearing and then reappearing at random - and sometimes extremely inconvenient - moments. Sneaking back into his rooms well past a time when everyone else had gone to sleep. Turning down missions given to the group in exchange for tasks that could be completed closer to home. Showing up to training sore and exhausted. Cutting training short to attend to some undisclosed matter. Never saying what he was doing, or where he was going, or how he had managed to receive yet another wound somewhere on his body.

Aramis trusted d'Artagnan, but Aramis had been wrong before.

* * *

 Porthos moved across the rooftops, leaping from one building to the next, flinging himself higher and higher in an attempt to gain better ground. He jumped over gutters, climbing along the beams of the thatched roofs all around him, searching desperately for a sign of where their youngest member had gone. Treville was wrong, Porthos knew this without a doubt. When the words had reached his ears, he had been shocked by the accusation, overcome with a sense of dread, and hurt by the idea that anyone could even _begin_ to assume that d'Artagnan had turned against the closest thing he had to family: the Musketeers.

To be honest, they were his family. They were the people that watched out for him, protected him and comforted him. They cared for him in a way that only a brother could. Porthos' mouth set into a determined line as he changed his course and continued onward, keeping a sharp lookout for d'Artagnan. His thoughts replayed the sound of the pauldron hitting the ground as he hooked his hands onto the ledge of a building that was almost out of his reach, causing his feet to scramble precariously against the side of the wall below. He hadn't done this in a long time, not since he was a young child, not since his days in the Court of Miracles.

If Porthos could not find him, he knew someone who would be able to help. If d'Artagnan was anywhere in the city he would not be able to hide for long. They needed to rectify what had happened and clear d'Artagnan's name. _The betrayal that d'Artagnan must be feeling at this moment._ Porthos shook his head at the thought, forcing his attention back on the streets around him. Maybe Aramis was having better luck than he was. Maybe Athos was clearing up the whole misunderstanding at this very moment. Maybe they would all laugh this off in a few hours, surrounded by the warmth of each other's company, drinking in their favorite pub. Maybe things would get better.

But then again, maybe things would get much worse. Porthos had always been a dreamer.

* * *

 "What is the meaning of this charge?" The fury was visible around Athos, oozing from him in waves. Someone had tried to squander the reputation of one of his closest companions: an unforgivable act. Someone had sentenced him to die. Someone had wanted to end his life. It did not matter that this someone was Treville, a man renowned for his levelheadedness and his sense. It did not matter, because Athos knew that he was wrong. He knew that the lie that had been spoken was meant to wound; to inflict pain; to cause suffering.

D'Artagnan's suffering was unacceptable.

D'Artagnan's pain was unacceptable.

D'Artagnan's wounds were unacceptable.

And Treville was the cause of all of these wounds and pain and suffering. Athos found this unacceptable.

The question remained unanswered as Treville looked into Athos’ eyes, his own weary with sorrow and regret. Always sensible, always demonstrating an overwhelming amount of self-control; this was Athos at his finest. A sigh escaped from Treville's lips, filling up the small room and only seeming to add fuel to Athos’ anger.

"He did not do the things you have accused him of. What is the meaning of this?"Athos repeated.

"That is,” Treville paused, quiet, “Not entirely true.”

Athos eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" His resolve was cracking, his panic mounting.

"Has he left the city?"

The question threw Athos off guard, making him answer on impulse, "He is gone, but Porthos and Aramis are out looking for him now." Treville's shoulders sagged visibly with what Athos could only describe as relief.

"Stop looking for him; he should not be found."

"Why? What has he done?" The anguish inside Athos was growing, taking over, filling up all the cracks that could be found in his composure; leaking through into the final words of his question. "What has he _done_?"

"Everything and nothing. That is the problem. It matters not what he has done, only that he must leave. D'Artagnan must remain gone, Athos, do you understand? Do not look for him. Do not hunt him. Do not talk of him. Do not try to find him. Forget him." Weariness suddenly seemed to overtake him. "This is how we will protect him. D'Artagnan will just… be gone."

_Gone._

_Gone. Gone. Gone._

No, not gone: driven away.

"What have you done?" The question came out more accusing than Athos had intended, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was finding d'Artagnan. "Do not play games with me, Treville. One way or another we will find him and rectify this. He is our brother. All for one and one for all. That is what we taught him, and that is what we shall continue to show him."

Another sigh, this one resigned. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to accept what I am saying without question, and move on?" Cold eyes leveled upon Treville as he continued. "He is in trouble, more trouble than we can simply hope to get him out of. Trouble that will most likely result in his death. All of those times that he was gone and could not explain, he was on an assignment from me. He's still new enough that the Red Guard thought nothing of it when he integrated himself in amongst the slave traders. He was doing what I had assigned; he and two other that have been at this for years. We've been trying to end Richelieu's little side business for a long time and we were almost there, until something changed.

“More bruises and no information was all d'Artagnan was getting. Somehow, the Red Guard had figured out what was going on and were getting less and less subtle in their demonstrations of power.” Athos winced. "Do you remember last month? D'Artagnan was gone for three days, and when he returned he wouldn't even pick up his sword to train? He wasn't taking a letter to a priest as he said; he was lying abandoned in an alley until, miraculously, one of the other undercover Musketeers stumbled upon him." Athos had to fight down the bile that was rising in his throat. Suddenly the disappearances, the bruises, the _quiet_ all began to make sense.

"I told him to pull out, to break his cover and step back, but he refused. He completely ignored my orders. He continued to play his role, but it was growing increasingly clear that he was going nowhere, but to a quick death. There is a price on his head, Athos, and, when I asked him to leave until everything settled down, he refused that as well. He wanted to remain here with you. I had no other choice. He could have stayed and died, or left and lived. Do not squander what I have done here in an attempt to bring him back. He needs to remain far away from Paris, as far as he can go. This was the best option."

"We will fix this." The resolve was evident in Athos tone. "I will fix this."

"Athos -"

"Where would he have gone? He has no family to speak of, save for those who have just branded him a traitor."

Treville closed his eyes for a moment, debating with himself how much he could say. All of his hard work would be for nothing: his fabrications, his careful protection of d'Artagnan, his hope that things could be different… _But maybe they could be_. The man before him was a man of many talents, a man of strength and courage and cunning. _A man of pain._ Could he take any more pain? Treville wasn't sure. "A few weeks back, d'Artagnan showed me a letter from his uncle, a letter requesting assistance. I could not let him go to his uncle's aid because he would have been gone to long, but now I would not be surprised if that is where he has gone. He has no other family to speak of; that is where I would look."

Athos nodded slowly, his head turning over all the other possibilities that he could think up. His mind came up blank. That was the most likely place for d'Artagnan to go. "Where does his uncle live?"

"It is a two days’ journey northwest, with constant riding. I will give you leave from your duties for as long as I can while you try to find him. Rest up, and leave in the morning."

Athos gave another nod, this one filled with relief at the prospect of finding their missing companion. "We will depart as soon as Aramis and Porthos return."

Treville paused before agreeing. "As soon as they return. Yes, I should have expected nothing less. Go pack and try to sleep, Athos. Get the stable boys to prepare your horse, and by the Lord above, do not make me regret this."

Athos nodded his head and backed from the door. There would be nothing to regret, because d'Artagnan would be back where he belonged before long, fighting beside his brothers.

If resolve could change fate, Athos would be a very lucky man.

Athos never did have any luck when it mattered most.

* * *

 "Constance? Have you seen our young friend?" Aramis was banging upon the door, yelling into the open window and praying that Constance would hear him. "He's gone missing and we can't find him. Constance? Constance, are you there?"

"Young man, stop your jabbering." Aramis swing around to view the person behind him. "Good heavens! You'd 've given this old lady a heart attack if it weren't for the fact that I'm as fit as a piano. Is that how the saying goes? I can never quite remember. What do you need Constance for anyways? Have you come to break 'er heart like that other young man? What was his name again? I think it started with an 'A'… maybe a 'D'? No, no, it was an 'R' I think. Oh, never mind. He was such a nice boy, too; who'd 'ave thought 'e had it in 'em? Such pretty brown eyes! And 'is 'air was so _long_. 'E reminded me of my late husband, now that I think about it. Are you married, young man? I 'ave a lovely daughter that 'as almost all of 'er teeth still, I think you'd just lo-"

"Was the man's name d'Artagnan?" Aramis looked at the old lady in front of him, her back hunched and her right eye glazed over with a cataract.

"Yes, yes, that sounds about rights. Terrible taste that man had; awful! Wouldn't even consider marrying my sweet Marie. Said 'e was too much in love with Constance. Marie's only thirty-four, young man; still quite easy on the eyes, if you ask me. Perfect for someone of your caliber."

Aramis ignored the old lady’s words. At any other time, he would have been entertained by the lady before him, probably even more entertained than the one time that d'Artagnan managed to get himself chased by a swarm of bees. But not today.

"Has he been around here recently? To see Constance?"

"No; but then no one's been around 'ere recently. That house has been empty for several weeks now. Off to some fabric merchant up north. I've always wanted to travel, but my Pierre was never one for horses. Strange, now that I think about it, as he did their shoes for a living. Maybe that was the problem though. 'E never could seem to make the horses like him, always getting bit and-"

"Thank you madam, you've been very helpful." Aramis pulled off his hat and swept into a bow, always the charmer. "I must be on my way now, I have something very urgent to attend to." Aramis began to back away as quickly as possible, the woman’s words growing quieter with the distance.

"Such nice manners you 'ave. Did I tell you I have a daughter? I'm sure she would love you. Almost all her teeth still, and no diseases, at least nothing visible. And 'er 'air; it gets washed at least three times a year. Quite excessive if you ask me, but Marie doesn't care what I have to say. Maybe if she washed it less there wouldn't be that one bald patch just on top. Young man? Is he even listening to me? Youth these days, so disrespectful. 'E 'as no manners! None. Whatever will Marie do about her…" Aramis breathed a sigh of relief when he was finally - blessedly - out of earshot.

* * *

 "Flea, thanks for everythin'." Porthos leaned forwards to embrace his oldest friend.

"I'll keep an eye out for you, Porthos, don't worry. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Besides, what's life without a bit of adventure?" Porthos chuckled, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes, something that made Flea instantly uneasy: Porthos was always happy. "If he's in the city, we'll find him."

"'E’s my brother, Flea." The sound of loss was there, hidden under Porthos’ smiling facade. "I don't know what I'd do without 'im. I don't know what we'd all do without 'im."

"I know, Porthos." Porthos didn't handle loss well; but then again, who did?

"Go find 'im for me, Flea, please." His voice cracked on the final word. With a nod, Flea was gone and Porthos was turning back to the garrison.


	3. Chapter 3

The room swam into focus as d'Artagnan blinked his eyes open, allowing them to adjust to the harsh - but faint - glow that emanated from the doorway. The twitch of his head made him groan, his shoulders protesting the slight movement. His legs trembled beneath him as he tried to transfer some of the weight off his shoulders. Had a day passed yet? An hour? A year? D'Artagnan wasn't sure, his mind foggy from the pain that had worked its way from his shoulders into his back and across his chest. His right leg buckled and his shoulder separated from its socket with a sickening squelch. Blackness flickered across d'Artagnan's eyes: blessed, welcome blackness.

"Look at him, Bernard, already ripping apart at the seams and we haven't even gotten to work yet." The smooth voice filtered into the cell, wrapping around the walls and sending a shiver down d'Artagnan's spine. "I say we finish up with the water this time, wouldn't you agree? It helps to clean up the mess."

"Excellent plan, Fernand. I was hoping that we might be a bit more extravagant in our approach today anyways."

"Nothing with too much spray. I hate trying to get the color out of my clothes, it's almost impossible. If this little musketeer costs me a shirt, I'll be rather annoyed."

"I wouldn't dream of anything less, sir."

The voices made d'Artagnan's skin crawl.

"Knives, you think?" questioned Fernand, the excitement of a child seeping into the sound. "I know!" The snap of fingers could be heard. "The wooden rods, those ones that go underneath fingernails. It'll ease him into to it. Can't go all out in our first session, _and_ the cleanup is faster than most. I'm on a tight schedule today." Bernard let out an affirmative grunt, causing Fernand's tone to change instantly, a deadly edge replacing the childlike contentment of before. "Use your words, Bernard. You know how much I despise guessing games."

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir. The wood sounds wonderful, sir."

"Doesn't it?" Glee leaked from the impeccably dressed young man once more. "Wouldn't you agree, d'Artagnan?"

Slowly d'Artagnan blinked away the black spots that were still floating around his eyes, focusing in on Fernand. "Anything but the face. It's my trademark." D'Artagnan's voice rasped out from somewhere deep inside him, making him want to cringe. His throat was a desert, as though he had tried to drink sand and had instead swallowed glass. He forced a sickening smile onto his face.

"That seems fair, doesn't it Bernard? No faces. We wouldn't want you to be completely useless once we've finished with you. Well, you'll be dead, so I suppose it doesn't really _matter_ , but a certain sense of courteously must be maintained in affairs such as this. I'll tell you what, d'Artagnan; I'll avoid the face, if you avoid getting any of your bodily fluids on me. What do you say? Can you agree to that?"

D'Artagnan grinned feebly, his body racing with adrenaline; his mind cleared as the pain faded. What little spit he could muster he pooled together in his mouth, waiting for Fernand to take one more step; then another; another; one more. _Perfect._ The silence that filled the room was deafening as Fernand reached up to wipe the offending substance from the corner of his mouth, his eyes now narrowed into slits. "Did you see that, Bernard? I was being so _generous,_ so _kind,_ so _fair_. Whatever could have caused this offensive act?"

"I've no idea, sir. Some people just can't seem to appreciate others’ kindness."

"Too true, Bernard, too true. This generation has no manners. None! D'Artagnan? Did your mother ever teach you any manners?" Silence was the only reply. "No? Well, then, it's high time you learned them, isn't it?" Fernand leaned forwards, applying the slightest pressure to d'Artagnan's dislocated shoulder. "Answer me, dear boy. Use your words." More pressure was added. "Don't be shy now; I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot from you in the future."

The pressure was gone, replaced by the clinking of chains and then the sudden dropping of first one arm and then the other. The pain was overwhelming, agonizing, all-consuming. It rolled through d'Artagnan in waves, shutting down his mind and allowing him to do nothing but _feel_ what was happening to him. He thought he heard a whimper come from somewhere in the room, revulsion filling him when he realized the sound was coming from him. Despicable. Unacceptable. Weak. This was why he had been forced to leave. This was why he had been shunned. This was why he was alone.

This was why his brothers were gone.

D'Artagnan bit down upon the inside of his cheek, drawing blood from the soft flesh in his attempt to stop any more sound from falling past his lips. He fought down the tidal wave of shame and pain and suffering that was bearing down upon all rational thought. But maybe rational thought had left him behind a long time ago. What sane man spit in his captor’s face? What sane man made snide remarks and purposely ignored direct requests from the man that called all of the shots?

But had d'Artagnan really ever been sane? He wasn't sure now that he thought about it.

Maybe that was why they had let him go. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe they loved him, maybe they didn't.

Maybe they were his friends, maybe they weren't.

Maybe they were his family; probably not.

Maybe they believed Treville; _but shouldn’t they?_

Maybe they were coming for him. _Who am I kidding?_

Maybe he was alone again in the world. _Yes, I am alone again in the world._

Maybe he wa _-_

A boot tip forcibly toed against the swelling that was already prominent in his shoulder. D'Artagnan's mouth filled with even more blood. "Don't worry about screaming, d'Artagnan, it doesn't bother me. If it makes you more comfortable, who am I to judge? I never understood the appeal myself, but then again, I've never been in your position. It's the little things in life that are important. Fluffy clouds, bright flowers, clean clothes. A tidy room. Neat floors. An organized filing system. The little things are _important_. Screaming's a little thing. Who am I to take that away from you? If it really starts to grate, I can just shut you up anyways." Bernard chuckled off to the right.

D'Artagnan struggled to process the words. They were comfortable, friendly, almost as though Fernand had known d'Artagnan for years and was inviting him to come over for dinner. The fog had returned with the loss of adrenaline and his mind had slipped back into a pain-induced haze. Screaming was bad: that much he was certain of, and he resolved to contain any sounds of pain for the remainder of his stay, no matter how short or how long. The one thing that d'Artagnan still had was his pride - at least a shred of it - and he would not squander his last possession.

D'Artagnan's right arm was lifted forcibly above the ground: the arm with the dislocated shoulder. _Do not scream._

His limb was pulled taut, his fingers stretched out, aching. _Do not scream._

Something was lined up underneath the fingernail of his thumb, pushing against the fragile skin harshly. _Do not scream._

The thin rod was shoved forwards, tearing apart flesh and wrenching up the nail from its bed. _Do not scream._

The wood was left embedded in his flesh, lighting his nerve endings on fire. _Do not scream._

A flick of the wood and a wicked chuckle. _Do not scream._

Another rod, another finger. _Do not scream._

Another finger. _Do not scream._

And another. _Do not scream._

The final finger. _Do not scream._

Back at the thumb, the rod torn free from d'Artagnan's flesh with a jerk. _Do **not** scream._

One finger followed another, the mantra repeated again and again. _Do not scream. Do not scream. Do not scream. **Do not scream.**_

D'Artagnan could not remember being strung up again, hung from the ceiling like an animal waiting to be gutted. He could not recall the words exchanged between Bernard and Fernand. He could not recall if he was given food or water, if he had said anything in response to their jibes, if he had gotten Fernand's shirt dirty.

All that d'Artagnan could remember was that he did not scream.

And that the blackness, when it came, was like the welcoming embrace of a mother.

* * *

 "Did you know there are 206 bones in the human body?" Fernand was already talking before d'Artagnan could begin to open his eyes. "Do you want to play a game with me, d'Artagnan? Of course you do. It's something that I like to do with all my guests." The pain that was d'Artagnan's entire body made it hard for him to process Fernand's words. "Would you like to know the rules?"

"I've never been one for team sports." D'Artagnan wasn't sure how he had managed to get the words past his lips. Why was he here again? Oh, right; he was a "traitor."

Fernand made a clicking sound with his tongue, one of obvious disapproval. "Don't be like that, d'Artagnan. How do you plan to make any friends with that kind of attitude?"

"I have enough as it is, but I'll let you know if a spot opens up."

"Right, well, where are they then? If this is the type of friends you have, it seems you are in need of better company." The words bit at d'Artagnan more than the pain of his body. "No need to be, my dear boy, _I'll_ be your friend. My last one has recently died and I'm terribly lonely. It was quite a shame, really. He was so much _fun,_ but I suppose he didn't have quite the same affection for our games as I did… and he was getting very filthy by the end." Fernand sighed, melancholy leaking into his voice. Then he perked up and d'Artagnan pried his eyes open just in time to seem him clap his hands together. "Never mind that! I've got _you_ to play with now."

"I am sure there are much more interesting people you can toy with, Fernand. Let me go and the musketeers will give you the mercy of a quick death."

"This is marvelous! Threats just make the game more fun. The hopeless pinning of a soon-to-be-broken soul. It's so poetic. Let's begin, shall we?" Fernand stepped forward, poking an impeccably clean finger at d'Artagnan's shoulder. _Do not scream._ _Do not scream._ A hiss of air was not a scream, d'Artagnan reasoned. "Bit tender? That's a pity. Maybe I'll start on the other side then, or the ribs, those are fun; so hard to count though, so hard." Fernand frowned.

"More men will be coming for me soon, Fernand, and the less damaged I am in the more gentle they will be." Lying was about the only thing d'Artagnan had going for him.

"Isn't it wonderful? Soon we will have some more musketeer scum to play with. This is better than Easter! Better than Christmas! Better than my birthday! God, I did so love birthdays as a boy. My father had a rule that I could have one gift; whatever I wanted. Oh, the things that I received. I got a dog once, did you know? Have you ever had a dog, d'Artagnan?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure."

"Beautiful thing this dog was, too. I loved her with all my heart." Fernand had circled around d'Artagnan, eying him with a calculated expression. "Suppose that was the problem, though. One morning, I was coming home from a walk with Renee and I saw my father standing up by the house, waiting for us." He grabbed onto d'Artagnan's left arm and unleashed it from the metal manacle, letting him dangle from his right, his legs having given out long ago. "Father smiled - it was such a nice smile! - and then he said either _he'd_ slit her throat or I could. What's a boy to do? I loved that dog; she was as well trained as could be, and here was my father telling me to kill her. I couldn't just let any old person kill Renee. You understand that, don't you, d'Artagnan? So I took the knife and slit my poor, sweet dog's throat."

"That's barbaric," d'Artagnan spat.

"On the contrary, it was a very valuable lesson; one should never get too attached to something that they can easily lose." Fernand had circled back around d'Artagnan, coming to rest right in front of him. "Like friends." His eyes gleamed maliciously, "I cycle through them so quickly, it wouldn't do to grow fond of them." Psychotic or not, d'Artagnan was beginning to see the wisdom in those words. If only he hadn't allowed himself to become attached to Athos, Porthos and Aramis.

"But now, enough of these childhood tidbits: it's time for the game. It's quite simple really; I've been perfecting it for years. There are 206 bones in the body, and the goal is to see how many I can break before you pass out. The record is seven. Awful small if you ask me, but no one seems able to beat it. You have spunk, though, boy. I think you could be a real contestant for first place. How about this: you make it to ten and I let you go. That sounds fair to me, no?"

"You sadistic, sniveling, slimy - "

"Ten it is! I'm so glad you agree." D'Artagnan's hand was picked up from where it had come to a stop limply by his side. _Do not scream._ "Bone number one! Count with me now, d'Artagnan; it's much more fun if we both participate." The hands closed around the delicate bones in his hand, singling out the one that connected his pointer finger to his wrist. _Do not scream._ The pressure mounted as d'Artagnan felt the bone bow beneath the weight of Fernand's fingers. _Snap_. A fiery pain sliced into d'Artagnan's hand, clawing at his raw nerves and making him twitch. _Do not scream._

Tears were not screaming, d'Artagnan decided.

"One down, nine to go. Just remember, the record's seven. There is no shame in bowing out before we reach ten." Fernand's hand moved over a fraction of an inch and pressed downward. _Snap_. He moved over again. _Snap_. One more movement to the right. _Snap._ "How you feeling there, boy? Hanging in?"

D'Artagnan refused to open his mouth, the only thing he could focus on being his hands and the three words that he clung to. _Do not scream._ He was afraid that if he parted his lips for even a moment his only sense of pride would be taken from him. His eyes swam with black spots.

"Four down, four to go; then the record is broken! Isn't this exciting? I knew you were something special from the moment I laid eyes on you." _Snap._ D'Artagnan's sense of hearing was fading in and out, making him miss most of what Fernand was saying. _Do not scream._

"On to… wrist!" _Snap!_

D'Artagnan was many things, but he was not a god. His head slumped forward and his mind went fuzzy for a few moments.

"Still… me?… Almost…-ne… Two… once… record… beat!" d'Artagnan couldn't work through the haze in his mind to process the words. The only solid thought that he could grab onto was do not scream _._ _Do not scream._ _Do not scream. Do not scream._

 _Snap. CRACK.._ D'Artagnan was floating in a sea of pain, drowning in a world of Fernand's creation. Nothing registered in his mind. He was supposed to not do something, wasn't he? He couldn't be sure. He couldn't remember. Thoughts swam together in a swirl around him. Tied to a pile of gunpowder. Running through the Court of Miracles. Drinking with his three closest companions. His pauldron hitting the ground as he left. His brothers not looking at him as he walked away. A cell. A bowl of soup.

"Mutton is the one that goes ba-a-a-ah and has wool on it."

Then nothing.

* * *

 "Did you know there are eight vital organs in a man's chest and torso?" The door had creaked open a moment before and d'Artagnan was pulled from fitful dreams of friendship and belonging. If he wasn't already in insurmountable pain he would shake himself for his weakness.

"Aramis may have mentioned it once or twice." D'Artagnan wasn't sure why he bothered to respond. His conversational skills got him nowhere and seemed to only spur Fernand onward. To be honest, d'Artagnan wasn't sure _how_ he managed to answer. The slightest movement set his body on fire, the manacles chafing harshly at his broken wrist and his arm bones positioned at a strange angle. Cataloging injuries had never been something that d'Artagnan paid attention too; he would rather just pretend that they weren't there and wait for them to go away, but with the mounting tally of painful body parts, he would at least need to have some idea of what would have to be done to him if he ever got a chance to sort himself out.

Eight broken bones.

Five mutilated fingers.

One dislocated shoulder.

A thousand strained muscles.

Where was Aramis when you needed him? At least Fernand had left his face alone. D'Artagnan let out a quiet laugh, something that wracked his body with pain and left him wheezing. The damp atmosphere of his cell was getting to him.

"What so funny, my good fellow? I do so enjoy a good laugh every once in a while." D'Artagnan didn't bother to pay him any attention. "This Aramis you speak of, is he coming by soon? Two's a party, three's a crowd, you know, but I think we can make a few adjustments to the room and accommodate him."

D'Artagnan growled past the pain. Fernand could hurt him all he wanted, but he would be damned if he thought that he could get anywhere near one of d'Artagnan's brothers.

"Naughty, naughty. I see you still haven't learned any manners. I'll just have to work harder than."

Was anyone coming for him? No. Even if they wanted to - which they clearly didn't - they would have no idea where to look. The best that d'Artagnan could hope for was his uncle sending a message to the musketeers. Did he want that to happen? He wasn't really sure. They were both two equally horrendous options. Physical torture and eventual death vs. emotional reunion, emotional torture and eventual death. Both ended in eventual death, so it was picking the less painful of the two that was the goal. It appeared that he was going to be hanging out with Fernand for a while.

"How long do you plan to keep me here?" The question was out of d'Artagnan's mouth before he could stop it, followed by a wet cough that filled his body with pain. His lungs wheezed.

"Good question, good question! You are full of surprises, d'Artagnan: sharp wit, a high pain tolerance - did I tell you that you broke the last game's record? - and now, good questions! How about… we start with forever and work back from there? That sounds reasonable." Even rolling his eyes hurt, d'Artagnan realized. "You've gone and got me distracted again." It was impossible to describe Fernand's attitude as anything but petulant. "I had another game for us, more artsy this time. It takes quite a lot of skill if you ask me. That's why I've left Bernard behind again. He's so clumsy… he's also tied up in one of the cleaner cells around here, but I would have left him behind anyways." Fernand frowned.

"Never mind that, the game. I've brought a tool with me this time." D'Artagnan's heart sank as Fernand drew a knife from its sheath with a flourish. "There are eight vital organs in a man's torso: the heart," Fernand's knife pressed dangerously above it, "the lungs," the knife moved, cutting open d'Artagnan's shirt and letting the cold metal rasp against his flesh quietly, "the stomach, the pancreas, the liver, the kidneys, and the intestines, both large and small." With each new name the knife was moved to rest just above the organ until it had sliced the shirt to ribbons and was resting nerve-wrackingly above d'Artagnan's more sensitive body parts. "They all come to an end… here." The tip bit through the fabric of d'Artagnan's pants, making his eyes widen in terror.

As quick as Fernand had begun he stopped, sauntering off to one side to eye d'Artagnan. Fernand's sudden mode shifts and erratic timing was almost more painful than the torture itself. "Did you know that I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger? I even completed my education. They told me I was great! Skilled. Talented. They told me I could make medical history if I put my mind to it. Then they forced me out. Said I was to… creative in my approach to medicine. 'Too bloody and violent’ were their exact words, I believe. I did more harm than good, that's what they told me. Apparently they didn't seem to realize that I wasn't there to help people. I just wanted to study the human body: such a fascinating thing. That's how I know where each of your organs are, in case you were wondering. That's also how I know where each organ _isn't_!"

D'Artagnan was pretty sure he was beginning to understand the game. "I can carve you a picture if you want; I'm open to suggestions. I've gotten very good with words as well. I'm fond of birds, wings especially. Will that work for you? Normally I don't do this - too messy and all that - but for you I thought I'd make an exception."

"What are the rules of the game this time?" d'Artagnan struggled to push down the rising panic inside him.

"No rules this time. It's not even really a game, more of a way to let my creative juices flow. I used to be quite good with charcoal." Fernand grinned. "Wings it is!" d'Artagnan groaned at the rest of his shirt was ripped brutally from his body leaving his entire back and torso bare. He tried to swallow, but no moister could be found.

He could feel the cool metal as it was placed against the soft skin of his back. The first wave of pain as it bit into his skin. The flow of blood as it poured rhythmically down his body. The sound of slicing flesh as Fernand carved sweeping designs into his shoulders. The feel of his flesh splitting apart under the careful ministrations of his captor.

The never ending pain that was his only companion.

_Do not scream._

**_Do not scream._ **

_Do not scream. Do not scream. Do not scream._

Why wasn't he allowed to scream? D'Artagnan couldn't quite remember. It was important he was sure, something that would change everything about the situation that he was in.

Pain. More and more pain.

Would he lose something if he screamed? No, that wasn't right; he didn't have anything to lose. No friends, no family, no lover, no home.

Nothing.

 _Do not scream._ But why? Why not?

More pain.

"Athos!" The howl was that of a broken boy.


	4. Chapter 4

“’E’s been doing _what_?” Porthos’ eyes were narrowed dangerously.

“It would appear we haven’t been as observant as we could have been.” Athos’ voice was one of thinly veiled self-deprecation. As he had waited for his brothers to return, he had done nothing but stew in his own self-pity. Maybe, if he had bothered to pay closer attention to what was happening to one of the only people dear to his heart, he would have been able to avoid everything that was going on now. Maybe if he had only tried to get d’Artagnan to open up to him more when he had appeared with unexplained absences or injuries that were probably worse than he let on, instead of foolishly believing that d’Artagnan would come to him when he was ready. Maybe if he had bothered to _look_ at d’Artagnan’s face when Treville had leveled his accusation at him, Athos would have known what to do. Maybe then he would have been able to stop this whole ordeal.

Aramis looked between his two brothers, his emotions torn between shame for even contemplating the idea that d’Artagnan may have been truly at fault and a sense of admiration for the lengths d’Artagnan had gone to to maintain the operation and continue to play his role. Would he have been able to keep up the charade even as the three most important people in his life seemed to forsake him? Aramis wasn’t sure, and he hoped he’d never find out.

“Here’s to hoping he’s decided to lay low in the bed of some pretty maiden.” Porthos barely cracked a smile and Athos didn’t even acknowledge the wish that was riddled with out of place enthusiasm. That was Aramis, though, making jokes at the worst possible opportunities.

“Get anything you need for the journey. Treville has given us leave to so pursue our young friend and it would be best if we were well on our way before the light starts to fade,” Athos said.

Porthos nodded, “’E’s already almost a day’s ride ahead of us. If we leave it any longer we’ll ‘ave no way of findin’ ‘im.”

“How can you be so sure that he’s decided to make his way towards his uncle’s?” The question was one that Athos hadn’t even thought to ask himself. He turned towards Aramis with a frown.

“D’Artagnan is loyal to a fault. If someone is in need of his help, he will always go to protect them.” Athos’ face suddenly turned grave. “Even without his abundance of compassion, he has nowhere else to go.”

Aramis nodded, not truly doubting that Athos was wrong, but nonetheless hoping that d’Artagnan would be easier to find. “I have to gather my bags from my quarters. I can be ready to depart by the time the horses are prepared.” If they didn’t find d’Artagnan soon they would have no way of tracking him. When Aramis truly thought about it, the young Gascon was more secretive than he led people to believe. He never really talked of his life before the Musketeers. He didn’t seem to have any passions besides the Musketeers, any aspirations but to become a musketeer and - after the loss of Constance - any friends outside the musketeer garrison.

Did he love theater? Art?

Did he read?

Did he write? Poetry perchance? Sickening sonnets confessing his love for the latest pretty maid that had caught his eye? Definitely not the last one; that seemed more like something Aramis would do himself.

Did he secretly spend his time making food? Tasting wine? Learning? Aramis wasn’t sure, but he vowed that as soon as they got back the newest addition to their small band of merry men he was going to make sure he learned as much as he could about d’Artagnan.

“Porthos, grab your bags as well and we can be on our way momentarily. The horses have already been tacked up and the saddle bags are prepared for our journey.” Porthos gave a sharp nod of his head and turned immediately to leave, pulling Aramis along with him and kick-starting the Inseparables into motion. Athos turned the other direction, heading away from the soldiers quarters and towards the stables to make sure everything was ready as promised.

“Told you ‘e didn’t do it.” Porthos glanced towards Aramis and jabbed him softly with an elbow as they made their way up the stairs, another faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Never doubted him for a moment.” The line was delivered with as much enthusiasm as Aramis could muster – which is to say, no enthusiasm.

* * *

 The light was already fading by the time that the Inseparables had made it halfway through the city. Athos was in the lead, brooding as he usually did, while Porthos and Aramis were plodding along beside each other, their company all that was needed for reassurance.

Something flickered in the corner of Porthos eye and he pulled his horse to stop. “Giffrei? What are ya doin’ out of the Court?” Aramis and Athos both turned towards Porthos as he spoke. Before him stood a man about Porthos’ age, a scar cutting from the corner of his mouth to the beginning of his ear. His white-blond mass of hair stood out strangely against the harsh brown that pervaded all of Paris. Aramis had to look again when he saw pink eyes shining out from Giffrei’s face.

“Flea been spreading the word tha’ you wanted information on tha’ lil’ musketeer who ‘elped out the Court once.”

“Have you seen our brother recently?” Athos’ voice was as calm as ever, but Aramis could still hear the smallest amount of hope slip into it.

“Went west hours ago, but ‘e was riding on a old ‘orse that git one eye. Looked rough that one did, yes sir, real defeated-like.”

Aramis tried to hold back his grimace of shame, but he was fairly unsuccessful. “Thank you for the news, Giffrei.” Porthos voice was a sad rumble as he fished around inside one of his pockets for a coin. “’ere’s payment for your troubles.”

“I don’t need no payment, Porthos, ‘cept you finding that youngin’ d’Artagnan. Keep that there money.” Giffrei smiled, his scar stretching oddly and catching the quickly fading light.

Aramis looked closely at the man again, something in Giffrei’s manner making him suspicious. Was he lying or was he actually sincere about wanting them to find d’Artagnan? “Why are you helping us so readily?” The question was out before he could stop it.

“’E saved my lil’ girl’s life, ‘e did. Nearly got ‘imself run through for ‘is efforts, but ‘e saved ‘er. Ewart was after ‘er, and ‘e would have ‘ad ‘er too, but ‘e saved ‘er. Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do to repay ‘im.”

Athos looked almost as surprised as Aramis felt. “He never mentioned that to me.”

“That’s the truth, s’all I’m sayin’. Good luck in finding ‘im; ‘e’s a special boy.” Without another word Giffrei turned and slipped away in the rapidly dwindling crowd that filled the streets.

“’e hasn’t really told us much, has ‘e?” Porthos had pulled his stallion back beside Aramis and was looking at the group in amazement. “Ewart is one of the more unsavory sorts in the Court. Even I didn’t dare take ‘im on when I was livin’ there.”

“He doesn’t really share much about himself. What does he like to do? Besides be a musketeer, of course.” Aramis had been wondering the same thing, but he figured that if anyone had the answers it would be Athos; apparently not.

Porthos frowned and shook his head. “I saw ‘im drawing once, but as soon as he noticed me ‘e flipped the page over. Never bothered to ask ‘im ‘bout it.”

“As soon as we find him, I am determined to learn more about our young friend. We had best be off quickly. We can set up camp as soon as we are an hour’s ride from the city. The light’s almost completely gone now.” Athos turned his horse and made his way westward out of the city.

* * *

 The rain had come from nowhere; the clouds blew in on a violent wind and bit through the Musketeers’ clothing without remorse. Aramis grabbed frantically for his hat as it blew from his head, narrowly avoiding having it land in one of the rapidly growing puddles. He was loath to admit defeat, but with the weather raging as it now did, Aramis wasn’t sure it they would be able to make it much farther along the road. Up ahead, he could just make out the rough shape of Athos’ shoulder through the downpour.

“Athos! We’ve gotta find a place to wait out the storm.” Porthos’ comment was punctuated by a sudden flash of lightning from above, a crack across the sky that broke into four fragments with only three of the jagged lines rejoining. Aramis vaguely wondered if God was trying to tell him something, but he shrugged the idea off with a shake of his head, waiting for Athos’ reply.

Athos pulled his horse to a stop to allow his two companions to pull up beside him, his face grim and dripping with rain. “D’Artagnan is already a day’s journey ahead of us. There is no telling how long he will remain with this uncle before he moves on. We cannot abandon him twice in as many days.” Beneath him, Athos’ horse shook her head, trying to remove the water that was running in small rivers down her face.

“Porthos is right, Athos.” Aramis didn’t want to be away from d’Artangnan any longer than he needed to, especially after having doubted him, even for the shortest of times; but he also saw the truth in Porthos’ words. “The water is destroying the roads, and the saddles are already starting to chafe on both the horses _and_ my legs.”

“’is legs, Athos. We can’t let anything ‘appen to ‘is poor, delicate extremities.” Aramis feigned hurt at the words, while Porthos just grinned in response.

“I will have you know, Porthos, that the legs are good for a much more than just walking. I must keep then in pristine condition at all times. One must always be prepared to help out a beautiful maiden that is in need of assistance.”

“’ow very generous of you.”

“I aim to please in all things.” Aramis was smiling as well now, his mood lifting with the familiar banter.

Athos watched the exchange, calculating the risk of a night’s wait in the next inn that they came across. One night would not put them that much farther behind d’Artagnan and chances were that he was caught in the downpour as well. D’Artangnan had a thing about the rain, a deep dislike that Athos had picked up on immediately. Why though? He wasn’t sure. More and more Athos was realizing how little he knew about the Musketeers’ newest member, having waited for d’Artagnan to open up in his own time. More likely than not, d’Artagnan would have disappeared as far indoors as he was able the moment that he had felt the first drops upon his skin.

“We will take shelter at the next place we come across. As soon as the rain ends we will continue on our way and make haste toward d’Artagnan.” Porthos nodded while Aramis just looked relieved. Turning his horse around, Athos look back over his shoulder, “I trust that your delicate extremities will be able to make it to the next stop?”

Aramis’ response was drowned out by the sound of thunder rumbling just above them as they took off down the lane…

* * *

 Four long nights of waiting for the rain to end and another two days riding through the destroyed, muddy roads with nothing but the company of his own thoughts and the occasional comment from one of his companions left Athos wearier than he had been in as long as he could remember. The constant worry of what d’Artagnan must be going through was nothing compared to the fear that he would not forgive them and return to the garrison with them. Could he trust them after they had allowed him to leave without even lifting a finger to try and stop his departure or to defend his honor? D’Artagnan had seen them all receive enough false accusations to know that they would normally spring to aid one of their comrades.

Any of them would have done it - all of them should have done it - but they were too blindsided by the accusations to even consider that d’Artagnan would leave as soon as the charges were laid. Athos had been overwhelmed by the thought of losing the closest thing he had to a younger brother, while Porthos was struck dumb by the ludicrousness of the idea that d’Artagnan would be even remotely involved in a trading ring of any kind. Aramis, he had come to realize, was preoccupied with attempting to take care of Porthos should he take what was being said to heart. If it weren’t for Aramis eventually pulling Athos out of his daze, he wasn’t sure how long he would have remained standing there.

“I can see it!” Aramis’ voice was filled with glee. “Look there, a place to stay. I’ve been dreaming about a soft place to sleep since we got back on the road. D’Artagnan somehow always manages to make us camp in the worst possible places, even when he isn’t around. Remember that one time he rolled out our mats upon an ant hill? 

Porthos shuddered as a grin adorned his face, his mood lifting as the prospect of getting back there newest addition drew closer. Along the side of the road up ahead were a small collection of buildings that were the makings of a town. “I will never disturb an ant again; their pinchers are more vicious than even Athos’ sword.” Athos smiled at the memory. He had just gone off to gather more wood for the fire when he had heard a feminine scream emanate from the direction of their camp. He had returned to the most peculiar of sights, with the faintest suspicion that the yell had been from Aramis.

“And that scream you let out, Porthos!” Aramis expression was one of wicked amusement.

“It seems the trauma has affected your memory, my delusional friend; I have never heard you scream quite so _daintily_ before.” Porthos tried his best to imitate Aramis, causing Athos to shake his head fondly at their antics. Right about now would be the time that d’Artagnan would break into the argument with a comment of his own.

“Let us make haste. We may be able to leave here tomorrow if all goes as planned. D’Artagnan cannot be far away now.” Spurring his horse into a canter, Athos moved ahead of the other two as they continued to bicker jokingly between themselves.

Moments passed and the three were at the doors leading into their potential lodgings. An old man, his hair white as the December snow, pulled the door open as they approached. He eyed them warily, his body tucked mostly behind the door to the building. “I have already told Fernand that I cannot give him the taxes that he demands. Everything that I am able to pay has already been taken.”

Athos exchanged a glance with his two friends before they all swept off their hats and dropped into a quick bow of respect. “I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers, and these are my companions Aramis and Porthos.” With each name he nodded his head toward them. “We have come from Paris to seek out one of our brothers, the musketeer d’Artagnan, and would like to obtain lodgings with you if there are rooms available.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “How am I to know that you are as you say?”

“We are honest men, my good fellow, and we wear the uniform of our king.” The man still looked suspicious, but he pulled the door fully open and called to someone farther back in the house.

“Georges, gather their horses and place them in the stables.” A small boy of about fifteen years of age appeared, observing the three strangers at the entrance before nodding and coming forward to gather the reigns of the three horses. “Bring up their packs when you’ve finished.” Georges nodded. The hunched older man watched the boy leave before gesturing for the three musketeers to enter the inn. “That is my grandson, Georges. His mother died when he was young and his father has recently passed away.” A dark look flashed in the man’s eyes. “I am Verrall, the owner of this establishment. You say you are here to look for a fellow musketeer?”

“Yes!” Aramis may have appeared a little too eager. “He has come to see his Uncle Henri. Have you seen him?” At the name Henri, Verrall’s face lost all trace of welcome. Aramis backpedaled quickly. “Our friend was informed of a disturbance in the area and wished to offer his aid.”

“Have you seen our companion?” Athos asked quietly.

“No sir. How many rooms would you like?” The sudden change in topic didn’t even faze the three, only making them more curious.

“We need to find ‘im. If you ‘aven’t seen him, would you be able to tell us the way to his uncle’s farm?” Porthos crossed his arms, making his question seem less suggestive and more demanding.

“Never heard of a Henri, but you can try asking down at the tavern.” Verrall’s voice was clipped and almost nervous. “Now if you’ve changed your mind about the rooms I must insist that you leave.”

“No, no,” Aramis said, shaking his head, “Three rooms please.”

Verrall gritted his teeth and lead them up the stairs, limping slightly on feeble legs.

* * *

 “He knows somethin’ that ‘e isn’t telling us. It makes me uneasy,” Porthos said as soon as they were out of ear shot of Verrall and Georges, who had decided to watch them make their way down the dirt road towards the tavern, The Laughing Cow.

Aramis nodded, “Something’s going on here and if he won’t even tell a musketeer, it’s probably very bad.”

Athos pulled the door to the tavern open, responding, “Try to find out as much information as possible here. I’m beginning to grow concerned for our young friend.”

“The whelp’s tough, but even ‘e can’t get himself out of all the trouble ‘e seems to find.” Porthos almost ran into Aramis’ back as he followed them into the pub, not noticing that they had stopped. The interior of the area was suddenly silent, even though the three had been able to hear rowdy laughter before they had opened the door. A few groups of men were scattered around different tables, while the bartender was trying to discretely grab at something that looked to be hidden underneath the counter top.

“Gentleman,” A smooth voice greeted them from across the room, coming from a man about their age, his skin tanned and his hair bleached from hours working under the sun. “What can we do for you?” His hand was placed carefully upon a knife resting beside his wine glass. Each musketeer jumped onto the defensive.

“We have come seeking our friend, d’Artagnan. He came here looking for his uncle, Henri, a few days ago, and Verrall seemed to believe that you may be able to provide us with more information.” At the name, many of the men relaxed; evidently Verrall was a well-known and trusted member of the community. “D’Artagnan came to offer aid to his uncle, as he was told about a disturbance in this area. We, all three of us, are members of the King’s Musketeers and wish to offer our services in any way that we can.” Athos’ voice was as calm as he could make it, almost as if he was trying to talk down a rabid dog.

The farmer who had first talked to them nodded his head understandingly, a look of sympathy upon his face. “If ‘e’s gone to find Henri ‘e probably dead by now.” Athos went ridged while Aramis sucked in a small gasp of air.

“’E’s not dead,” unwavering finality filled Porthos tone.

“If you insist upon attempting to find your friend, I will show you where Henri lives. It is not far from here and anything that you can do to help us in return would be more than welcome.” A few of the men around the room looked as if they wanted to protest against what the farmer had said, but no one spoke up. “My name is Gaspar.”

Aramis tried to fight down his rising panic when Athos didn’t immediately answer the man, consumed by what he had just said about the death of d’Artagnan. Moving forward, Aramis took off his hat and bowed as they had done earlier with Verrall. “I am Aramis and this is Athos and Porthos. Thank you for offering your assistance. We will give our aid in any way we can.”

“Let us be quick, before we waste any more time here.” Athos words, thick with worry, made Aramis’ more anxious than anything that Gaspar had said so far.

Nodding, Gaspar lead them from the tavern and off towards the edge of town, heading into the trees. “It’s best to not let Fernand catch word of your arrival. We’ll stick to the tree line until we get to the house.”

“What’s been going on here? Has no one tried to contact the king?” Athos’ questions were ones that everyone was wondering.

“Our last Comte was recently murdered and replaced by his son, Fernand. We have tried to stop them, but he continues to demand and collect unjust taxes. His lot will silence anyone who tries to speak against them and have taken to using our women when we are unable to pay what is due.”

Aramis grimaced. “I was wondering why there were no maidens around, but that would explain it.” Porthos shot him a look as if to say ‘of course you would be the first to notice that.

Athos looked quizzically at Gaspar. “Why has nobody informed the king? Surely he would send help.”

“The king is a buffoon. We have sent more than one message to his people and none have been answered. We are of no consequence to him.” That sounded just like the king, Porthos mused. Unless there was personal gain to be had he didn’t much care about what happened to his people. Take the Court, for example.

“We’re almost there.” Gaspar nodded towards a hill several yards ahead. “This opens onto Fernand’s lands.” Athos moved ahead quietly, racing up the hill as quickly as possible so that he could see more of what was going on. As soon as he crested the rise he dropped to his stomach and looked around at the sprawling expanse of open land before him.

A towering white manor stood our brilliantly against the colors of the forest behind it, the tall pillars and gold detailing making it look more like a palace than a country home. The marble that covered the ground around the building made even Athos’ old house pale in comparison and the huge fountain that sat in the middle of the yard did nothing to make the manor any less ostentatious. He could see what appeared to be the entrance to a small building off to the right, a cellar of some sort, he guessed. Patrolling the area were a few guards, all scattered in different places around the house. Off in the distance Athos could make out the shape of a horse with two riders, one obviously asleep, disappearing into the woods. The one with dark hair slumped forwards slightly before being caught by the man behind him. He felt his companions lay down beside him, taking in the view as best they could.

“Where did the Comte get all of ‘is money?” Porthos was looking at Gaspar. “There is no way ‘e’s able to pay for this with the money ‘e gets from taxes.”

Gaspar swallowed awkwardly, not really able to look Porthos in the eye, “It’s rumored that ‘e’s in the business of slaving. No one confirms it, but no one denies it either.” Porthos’ face darkened quickly.

“And what, pray tell, does this manor have to do with d’Artagnan?” Athos would be forever grateful to Aramis for always knowing the best way to calm Porthos down. Mentioning d’Artagnan seemed to do the job quite nicely.

“This manor?” Gaspar replied, “This manor is where Henri lives.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy and please comment and kudos it!

A burning rawness in his throat woke d’Artagnan from his most recent bout of restless dreams; a swirling mass of words that taunted and jeered at him, all coming from one of the Inseparables - more often than not Athos himself. The pain came second, slamming into him with more force than the shock waves that had hit him during his time as Vadim’s personal joke. Trying to quell the nausea that made his stomach roll unexpectedly, d’Artagnan pulled in a deep breath of air, stopping suddenly as the skin on his back and chest were stretched, pulling apart the already destroyed flesh that had been left behind after Fernand’s latest visit. The pain intensified tenfold and d’Artagnan could not hold back the urge to wretch, his body spasming in anguish as he lurched forward to heave up absolutely nothing. D’Artagnan’s vision flickered briefly and his lungs spasmed, sending him into a subsequent fit of coughing; a wet sound that left him trembling with fatigue once he finally stopped.

It was as though even his body had rebelled against him, reacting against his every wish and sending him spiraling into a realm of pain that d’Artagnan had never known existed, let alone though that he would have to experience. A pounding head ache took up a tempo right behind his left temple, and his vision blurred together before he saw a man standing directly before him. He was built like someone that d’Artagnan was sure he had seen before, but he wasn’t able to place the time. The man’s face slowly swam into focus.

“Son? How could you let this happen?” His father’s face loomed at him out of the darkness, taunting. “You let them shoot me. Why didn’t you stop them? I don’t trust that man. Not true family. Your uncle’s not true family. Not like me. Why did you let this happen to your only real family?”

“Papa?” d’Artagnan’s words were broken as he stared at the man he missed more than anything; a man that he owed his entire life to. “Papa, don’t say these things to me. I love you, Papa.” He looked pleadingly at his father.

“Love me? Ha! You couldn’t even kill that scum, Athos. You weak, useless, pathetic boy. You wanted me dead, didn’t you? Did you plan it together? Wait for the perfect opportunity and then… poof! No more Papa. Didn’t think you had it in you, honestly, coward that you are.” His father grinned maliciously, his eyes sparkling more and more as d’Artagnan’s own deadened. His voice seemed to morph as he talked, Athos’ own suddenly spilling from the lips of the man standing before d’Artagnan. “Too often you let your emotions run away with you. You have natural talent, d’Artagnan, but too often you let your emotions run away with you. You couldn’t even defend your father’s honor because you let your emotions run away with you. Why didn’t you kill me? I don’t deserve to live. I don’t want to live. You let your emotions run away with you. Why didn’t you KILL ME?” The man that was his father, but wasn’t his father continued to raise his voice until he was shouting, the sound bouncing around inside d’Artagnan’s head. “You don’t even have enough discipline to kill a ME, drunk musketeer. Why didn’t you kill me? You should have killed me! YOU SHOULD HAVE KILLED _ME_!”

D’Artagnan’s mind tried to wrap around what was happening before him. “Athos? I didn’t kill you, I shouldn’t kill you, I would never kill you. I didn’t kill you. You are good Athos, you are. I didn’t kill you. I _shouldn’t_ kill you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t… Papa-” his voice cracked, “-I couldn’t kill him.” D’Artagnan felt something wet slip down his cheek. Was he talking to his father? Athos? Did it matter anymore?

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His father’s voice flickered back and forth between his own and Athos’, finally blurring together until their voices overlapped, the mouth moving out of sync with the words.

“You should have killed me,” Athos whispered.

“Why did you let him kill me?” His father’s voice.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Athos again.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Then his father.

“You should have killed me!”

“You should have killed him!”

“ _Why_ didn’t you KILL ME?”

“ _Why_ didn’t you KILL HIM?”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU KILL ME? “

“WHY DIDN’T YOU KILL HIM?”

“I couldn’t kill him, I couldn’t kill him, I couldn’t kill him.” D’Artagnan squeezed his eyes closed, trying to block out the voices. “I’m sorry, Papa, I couldn’t kill him, I couldn’t kill… I couldn’t… couldn’t… couldn’t kill… couldn’t kill him… Wasn’t his fault… n-not his fault.”

“Man up boy. No member of my family is gonna be seen weak like this. ‘Sept that lousy uncle, couldn’t learn when to give up. Never did trust him.” The voice was different now, still the voice of his father, but cold; a tone that d’Artagnan had never heard from him before. “Open your eyes, boy. OPEN THEM! Look at what you did to me. LOOK!”

D’Artagnan forced himself to pry his eyes open, staring at the man before him. “This is what natural talent looks like.” D’Artagnan’s eyes widened as the small dot of color that was on the old clothing his father wore spread, blood-red and rapidly growing. The voices flickered in and out, disjointed and jumbled together. His father’s voice, but Athos’ words. “Natural talent — natural — looks like — natural look — t-talent — what talent — natural.” He flickered before d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“Not again, papa. Don’t go! Please, papa. Not again. Not again. Not again.” The light was fading quickly from the man that was his father but wasn’t his father all at the same time. “Not again.”

“Why didn’t you save me?”

“Papa? Don’t do this to me, Papa. PAPA!”

There was no response. The body bobbed up and down, hovering above the floor. Before d’Artagnan’s eyes it paled, decomposing in sections, the flesh eating away and the meat a sickly green bruise. The smell of rotting flesh assaulted d’Artagnan’s nose, his stomach roiling again. The face flickered once, changing into the body of André, then changing just as quickly back into his father before disappearing between one blink of his eyes and the next.

D’Artagnan released an anguished sound; his body dehydrated, his mind tired and his soul pained beyond belief. Why hadn’t he save his father? If he had stayed with him, d’Artagnan would have been there when the bandits had come across them. He would have been able to protect him from the pain that was his final breaths, filled with disappointment in his son’s failure to save his life. D’Artagnan may have not pulled the trigger, but it was always going to be his fault.

One way or another everything was his fault.

His father’s death.

His expulsion from the musketeers.

The death of André.

Had he not come to Fernand’s residence at all André may never had knocked on the door, resulting in his eventual death. It was undoubtedly his fault. The face of André’s lifeless body flashed before his eyes, the pungent sent of rotting flesh still prevalent around the cell, mixing with the damp and cold. It settled in the Gascon’s lungs like a cheap perfume. How had he forgotten that André was lying feet from him in the darkness? He hadn’t had many waking moments since the beginning of his stay, but the body was a constant addition to the cell. Forcing his mind to work through the fog that surrounded it, he was able to recall the body feet away from Fernand as he had circled d’Artagnan like a prized horse.

For days André’s body had been lying in the darkness, keeping a silent vigil over all that d’Artagnan was enduring.

Each word.

Each wound.

Each sound.

Each time he had been there, waiting in silence to be noticed.

“Don’t worry, André, I’m sure I will be seeing you very soon.” The corners of d’Artagnan’s mouth twisted up into a sickening smile.

* * *

 D’Artagnan heard the footsteps as they approached the door. They were heavier this time, nothing like the sound of Fernand’s polished shoes. The clang of the door swinging open revealed the crude face of Bernard, a bruise adorning one cheek. He stepped forward with a limp, grimacing as he moved. D’Artagnan’s eyes flickered to the body that was settled upon the floor, the skin discolored and beginning to eat away in some places.

“Still holding out, boy? I have a very important bet riding on this and I need the money.”

D’Artagnan didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t sure if he could answer.

“Fernand’s a bit preoccupied at the moment, but he said that you might be a bit thirsty, so he sent me to help you out. Thought you might want some water.” He grinned, exposing rotting teeth. “It’s a great honor, really. He speaks very highly of you, considerin’ you broke his record and all that. Besides, this is a bit more messy than what he enjoys.” A pink tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Thirst burned in d’Artagnan’s throat the moment water was mentioned. He moved his mouth to speak, only to have another wave of coughing overtake him. He rode out the pain in shuddering breaths, feeling more and more ashamed as Bernard’s interest in him grew.

“That sounds pretty bad. Who knows, maybe it’ll kill you before Fernand does. In the meantime, we have someplace to be.” Bernard limped forward, determination on his face. Even in d’Artagnan’s muddled mind he was able to realize that this was very important to Bernard, something that he could not mess up. Reaching forward, he fiddled with the manacle around one of d’Artagnan’s hands, letting it drop without warning. D’Artagnan tried to brace himself with the useless muscles in his legs, hoping to stop all of the pressure from falling upon his other arm. He managed to hold himself upwards for a few seconds before his legs gave out on him again, causing the broken bones in his other arm to grind against each other as they moved. The pain built as he swayed slowly back and forth, his mind struggling desperately to will away everything.

The next arm was dropped just as quickly, sending d’Artagnan tumbling to the floor, the impact less painful than the movement of his shoulders, one dislocated and the other probably pulled. His body screamed at him as his arms flopped back into their natural position, one so at odds with the pose that they had been in since he had arrived. Had he been here long? Two days? Four? Ten?

“Get up”: a completely dispassionate command. D’Artagnan tried his best to heave his body up off the floor, only managing to move it a couple of centimeters before his vision grayed around the edges. When he blinked them open again he was face to face with the body of André, dead eyes staring into equally destroyed ones.

“Get up! GET UP! GET UP!” André yelled, his blue and bruised face twisting angrily as he became animated once more. D’Artagnan pulled into himself as he lay terrified, squeezing his eyes shut and willing away the corpse that had started to drag itself towards him. Long, pale fingers reached for him with a determination that scared d’Artagnan more than anything Fernand had done to him. He waited with bated breath for the ice-like claws to close around his throat, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, only to open them again when all he felt was a sharp kick to his ribs. He stared blearily at André’s corpse, confused.

The body remained where it was when it fell.

“Fine! If you won’t move to the water, I’ll bring the water to you!” Bernard hissed unhappily down at d’Artagnan, his eyes narrowed. He landed one more vicious kick on the young Gascon’s ribs before shuffling off towards the door, his limp becoming more and more pronounced.

“Get up, pup! Work through the pain!” d’Artagnan jerked his head towards the wall before he could stop himself. Lounging comfortably in the corner, his hands crossed in front of his chest, Porthos looked disapprovingly downward.

Aramis walked through the wall, coming to rest beside Porthos. “Can’t you see the boy’s injured? Not surprising really. He always did need someone to take care of him. Bit of a bother if you ask me.”

“No one did ask you.” The voice came from the opposite corner. D’Artagnan could just twist him neck around enough to catch a glimpse of Athos out of the corner of his eye. “He’s helped us out before.”

“Name one time.”

“Well, there was that time with ‘em Spanish captains.”

“He got us into that mess to begin with, Porthos.” Aramis shook his head.

“What about— no… I know! Wait, never mind. ‘Ow about— yeah, I’ve got nothin’.”

“He did clear my name when I was about to die,” Athos supplied.

“Only after he tried to kill you.”

“And ‘e ‘elped rescue me from the Court and clear all of ‘em murder charges.”

“Not before he thought you had done it,” Aramis countered.

“He kept Marsac a secret to protect you,” Athos replied.

“He was worried I’d gut him, probably.”

“True.”

“Face it, he’s no brother to us.”

“You still plannin’ on prayin’ for ‘im?” Porthos questioned.

“I’ve prayed for worse men than he. All he’s truly guilty of is insolence.”

“And hot-headedness,” offered Athos

“Disrespect.” Porthos shook his head.

“Misplaced passion.” Aramis furrowed his brow and frowned.

“Over-emotion,” stated Athos

“Slavin’.” Porthos suddenly looked very disappointed.

“Oh, very good point, Porthos. Slaving is an excellent point. Not an honest way of making money at all. Disgusting, really.”

Athos nodded his head in agreement. “A filthy crime.”

“I feel compelled to say one prayer, for old times’ sake. He may have turned into a monster, but he was once a kind soul.”

Porthos unleashed a snort. “When ‘e was a baby, maybe.”

“He’d better start praying for himself, because nobody’s coming to save him, not even God,” Athos exclaimed with finality.

“Such a shame.” Aramis almost looked sad for d’Artagnan’s plight. “May as well get this over with.”

“You’re too forgivin’, Aramis.”

“It’s a flaw.” A smile was plastered upon his face. “Now, no more talking!” The other two men chuckled as Aramis rubbed his hands together. “Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears…”

D’Artagnan watched the exchange with a sinking heart. His eyes flickered from one area of the room to the next, always a step behind the conversation, never fast enough to defend himself. Three sets of eyes turned to stare pointedly at him, disapproval and disgust evident.

Athos had joined the others in their corner of the room. “’E’d _better_ pray for ‘imself. ‘E needs all the help ‘e can get,” Porthos whispered, trying not to disturb Aramis.

Cracking his mouth open to speak, d’Artagnan was distracted by the loud bang of the door opening once more and the slosh of water being hauled into the room, the bucket almost too heavy for Bernard. When he looked back at the corner of the cell the three Inseparables were gone, appearing to have never been there in the first place. All that remained of them was Athos’ parting words – a promise of sorts:

“See you in hell, d’Artagnan. You’ll be there soon enough.”

That was where he was going. They knew it, he knew it, his father knew it, probably even Bernard knew it. He wasn’t ever getting saved.

“Now, I’ve got a beautiful bucket of water and a shirt from Fernand’s dirty clothes collection. One speck of dirt and the thing gets tossed – I suppose it’s understandable, though. A man of perfection needs perfection in all things. Anyway, I haven’t done this in a while, so I might be a tad more sloppy than usual, but you’ll catch on soon enough.”

D’Artagnan’s only answer was a weak cough.

“Here’s how this is going to work. It’s surprisingly quite simple. I’ll place this fabric over your mouth and nose and pour water over the fabric. If you feel like you’re drowning, that’s the aim; so don’t bother complaining.” Bernard walked over and positioned the cloth, holding it in place with his feet. D’Artagnan’s feeble shakes of his head did nothing to deter him. Bernard hoisted the bucket upwards, a small amount slopping over the sides and onto the ground around d’Artagnan.

“What did you think of my monologue? I feel I’ve improved greatly since I first started working with Fernand. I do admire his style so much, it’s simply spectacular. I haven’t got the hang of sharing traumatic childhood stories, though. I can’t seem to think of ones that actually relate well to the situation. It’s a gift that he has. Truly a gi…” The sound of Bernard’s voice was drowned out by the splash the water made as it connected with the fabric smothering d’Artagnan. The liquid flooded his mouth and nose as he heaved in a breath on reflex. His lungs rebelled and spasmed as the foreign substance entered them. He was drowning. Actually, literally drowning.

D’Artagnan’s life was measured in the small seconds between one wave and the next. His body was consumed by the water, his mind following close behind. Everything was water. His lungs, his air, his skin. He _was_ water.

And then he wasn’t.

Now he was pain and tears and ice cold tremors. He was coughing and gasping and heaving in breaths that didn’t seem to hold enough air to fill all of the violated places in his lungs where the water had just been. He shook violently, quaking on the muddy floor.

“I’ll be right back, Musketeer.” Bernard’s cheer was almost as terrifying as Fernand’s. “I just need to grab a bit more water.” The words didn’t really register in d’Artagnan’s mind, too overcome was he in becoming solid once more. When the ‘more’ and ‘water’ penetrated the liquid that was his thoughts, he forced all of his remaining strength into his muscles, hoping to pull himself towards a more secure location. Bernard hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. Not that he needed to, d’Artagnan realized: he wasn’t going anywhere in his current condition.

Bernard inched back into the cell, a fresh bucket of water in his hands. He wasted no time in starting up his discourse again, his speech barely noticed through the roaring in d’Artagnan’s ears. He caught a few words here and there, his mind letting them filter in one ear and out the other. “The key to a perfect monologue in to talk about the little things in life, the nothing things. Stuff that everybody over looks and takes for granted. The mundane.”

Then the water was back and d’Artagnan was liquid once more; wet and melting, leaking into the ground and wasting away into a husk of his previous glory. His lungs alternated between screams for air and violent heaves to clear themselves out. His mind was the last thing to go. When his body was too weak to fight and his chest was too painful to move, his mind finally became numb. The deadness was liberating, something that d’Artagnan had been longing for since his first encounter with the hell that was Fernand.

If this was what death was like, d’Artagnan was prepared to welcome it with open arms.

* * *

 D’Artagnan once again hung limply from the chains that held him suspended slightly above the ground, making his body numb with pain. Icy water added to the effect, soaking his clothes thoroughly. Blood dripped rhythmically to the floor, crushed rubies scattered among the dust, drawing a small smile from his lips. _Soon_. Soon the pain would be gone. The pain in his body and, most importantly, the pain of betrayal in his heart. At least when he was dead he would have peace – but would they think of him?

No. Who would think of him but his uncle? At least he was a legend, d’Artagnan mused, holding an undefeatable title in Fernand’s game. That would be his legacy, he supposed. His lungs rattled as he hauled in another sickly breath of air. He blinked his eyes for a moment, looking around at the darkness once more, hoping for a sign of what was to come. D’Artagnan wasn’t scared to die. Not when life meant living in a stone room. Starving. Thirsting. Burning. Bleeding. Crying.

Screaming.

He was happy to go. The pain would be gone. The fear would be gone. The shame would be gone. The self-pity would be gone.

Blissful, wonderful nothingness.

D’Artagnan’s eyes dropped shut, his head following shortly after as he continued where Aramis had left off in his attempts to save his soul. _Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope…_ A muted sound reached his ears, but he paid no mind to the noise, happy to fill the silence with his feeble play for absolution. _To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve._

Why was his arm burning? And the other one? This was not how the afterlife was supposed to be. Where was the peace? The quiet? The lost loved ones? A dropping feeling overwhelmed him, followed by intense pain through his entire body. Wasn’t there supposed to be no suffering once you passed? _To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears._ If this was d’Artagnan’s life after death he didn’t want to remain. He wanted to be gone permanently.

“Oh, boy, what did he do to you?” Was someone there? “Gentle, gentle, easy now. Fernand’ll be hearing about this! Yes, he will. Move him carefully now. ‘Ey! Watch it!”

The voice sounded rough, but familiar. It wasn’t somebody that had died, d’Artagnan was sure of. Was it Athos? Yes, who else could it be? _Turn then most gracious advocate, thine loving eyes of mercy…_

“Athos,” d’Artagnan breathed through chapped lips.

A jarring thud shook his body. The voice was at it again, but he couldn’t focus well through the pain.

“Don’t dr- -im! Ca-ul!” Athos hissed.

“Sorry.” A new voice. Aramis? Porthos?

“Ouch,” responded D’Artagnan.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Man, oh, man guys, I'm so sorry that I haven't updated for over two months. I've had most of this chapter written since May, but until now I haven't had any time to complete it (not that I really have the time now. More like my guilt overpowered my practical side.) I'm especially sorry to those of you that I promised an update to in a response to some reviews. I have learned a valuable lesson... kinda. On a positive note, this chapter is about 2000 words longer than usual so I hope that helps make up for some of it.
> 
> Obviously, because I live to make you all wait, I won't be able to update until at least the beginning of August because I leave on vacation tomorrow and will not be back in August. I'm traveling without my computer with me (the horror) so I won't even be able to write in my free time. I apologize in advance for the wait, but I will try my best to get out a new chapter as soon as I get back (I make no promises. See, I have learned.) Thank you to everyone who is patient with me and who has stuck with this story.
> 
> Please favorite, follow, and review guys! Tell me what you all think.
> 
> Disclaimer: Although I would love to own me some real-life d'Artagnan (in a completely legal and humanitarian way), I do not even own the paper copy of him (or the TV version *weeps*). Any unrecognizable characters are my own (mostly I'm just proud of my villain, the rest are free game).
> 
> P.S. I also wanted to thank my wonderful friend for editing the first six chapters of this story. You know who you are!

“I wonder what happened to d’Artagnan’s horse?” The three men in front of Aramis turned to give him odd looks as they trekked their way back towards the tavern.

“And why is that?” Athos sighed.

“Because there’s an old, one eyed horse back there.” He gestured vaguely in the direction they had come from. “I didn’t think much of it, until I remembered what, um, Giffrei said. That was his name, wasn’t it?”

“’M surprised you remembered it,” Porthos replied.

“You know just how to wound me, my friend.”

“And can you lead us back to this horse?” Athos jumped into the conversation before Porthos could continue the banter.

“Of course!” Aramis actually looked insulted. “Who do you take me for? Porthos?”

“’Ey! You little-” Porthos stepped forward jokingly, his fists up.

“In that case, Aramis, since you have such a wonderful sense of direction, you can go collect the animal and bring him back to the tavern. The rest of us will go ahead. We’ll expect you back in an hour.”

“Don’t have all the fun without me,” Aramis groused.

Porthos let out a small chuckle. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The three men turned and continued down the path. “And don’t do anything stupid,” Athos called.

“Whatever could you mean?” Aramis couldn’t hear Athos’ response as they rounded the corner up ahead, disappearing back toward the village.

Turning back up the path, Aramis moved in the direction he had come, spotting the horse after only a few minutes of walking. He stood in a small circle of trees, his chestnut mane tangled and knotted with leaves, delicately chewing on the grass at his feet. But the motion looked painful, and on closer inspection Aramis knew instantly why, the horse’s bit having rubbed the corners of his mouth raw. The bridle dug harshly into the flesh around the horses face. The reins were snapped, probably broken from where the horse had been tied up previously, and the bridle must have caused all of the damage when the horse was tugging himself free. A saddle sat on the horse’s back, more likely than not causing chafing and possibly open sores. The cheap saddle bags were weighed down with what looked like all of d’Artagnan’s possessions. Aramis felt his stomach roll with dread. D’Artagnan would never leave his horse unattended for such a long amount of time, not unless something had happened to him.

Stepping forward cautiously so as not to spook the horse, Aramis held out his hand, calmly extending it as he inched closer to the horse. With a snort the creature noticed him and trotted over, staring at him closely with his singular inquisitive eye.

“Hello boy, you wouldn’t happen to know what has happened to my young friend, d’Artagnan?” The horse nickered in response, pressing his velvety nose softly into Aramis’ shoulder. “I’ll take that as a no, but you’re gonna have to come back with me anyway. It’s not far and I’ll be able to get you unsaddled and placed in a nice warm barn with a mountain of hay. How does that sound? I’m sure we can find you some beautiful mares to admire, too. Would you like that?” All the while continuing his one-sided conversation, Aramis gently gathered up the tattered reins and began to lead the horse back to the trail and the tavern. The process was slow going at first, not wanting to push the horse and hurt him, but eventually the two made it onto the path and back toward the village.

* * *

 The bang echoed around the tavern as Aramis slammed his hand down upon the wooden table where Athos and Porthos sat. He cringed slightly at the sound, but it didn’t help to lessen the mounting panic that was fighting to make itself known. He pulled his hand away, revealing a letter underneath. “That was definitely d’Artagnan’s horse.”

Athos didn’t even bother to question how Aramis knew. Putting aside all the possibilities that it was a coincidence that they has stumbled across a horse fitting the exact description of d’Artagnan’s, Athos trusted Aramis with his life. If he said it was d’Artagnan’s horse, it was d’Artagnan’s horse. He picked the letter up without saying a word, reading the contents quickly. Porthos glanced at the paper, but didn’t even bother to read the message after spotting the signature at the bottom of the page.

Henri.

“There’s something wrong,” Aramis hissed quietly, hoping not to be overheard. “Something has happened to d’Artagnan.”

Porthos studied Aramis face, picking up on the fear quickly. “Why’d ya say that?”

“You should have seen his horse, the condition he was in. D’Artagnan would never have such a blatant disregard for the care of an animal he had been given to watch over, no matter what condition he was in. The horse has been saddled for at least four days, probably longer, and he’s obviously torn himself free from wherever he was tied. The reins are broken and his face is rubbed raw. Not to mention the saddle sores. There is something wrong with d’Artagnan.”

Athos placed the letter back down on the table, his brow furrowed. “Look at the address here,” he said, pointing. “I would bet money that is different from the place Gaspar led us too.”

Porthos frowned in concentration, “An’ look at what ‘e says. ‘E has to be talkin’ about Fernand. Why would ‘e call d’Artagnan for ‘elp if ‘e’s workin’ with the Comte?”

Athos glanced around the dimly lit tavern, scanning for something. When his eyes settled upon Gaspar he waved him over with a flick of his hand. The man came cautiously toward the three, his eyes shifting wearily around the room. When he saddled up beside the table Athos wasted no time in interrogating him.

“We have a few questions for you.” Gaspar nodded. “Where is this place?”

Leaning forward to inspect the destination written on the paper, Gaspar widened his eyes in surprise. “That’s Henri’s old place. ‘E lived there for years before ‘e moved in with Fernand. It’s on the edge of the property.”

Athos nodded his head. “And you say that the two are working together?”

“In a way. Henri’s the man pullin’ Fernand’s strings. The man’s ‘ad ‘is hooks in Fernand for years. The last Comte and Henri worked together long before Fernand came to power and I wouldn’t be surprised if ‘e offed the old man too.” Gaspar shuddered.

“But why write to d’Artagnan and ask for help if he’s the problem?” Aramis wondered, the question more directed at himself than anyone else at the table. Not expecting an answer, Aramis was surprised when Gaspar responded anyways.

“If I ‘ad to guess, I’d say it’s because, nephew or no, your friend’s a Musketeer. No one seems to know why - an’ if they do, no one talks about it - but Henri’s hated them all his life.”

“That’s why you lot think ‘e’s dead, ain’t it?” Porthos asked.

“Or wishing ‘e was.”

Athos ground his teeth together angrily. D’Artagnan was not dead. He could not be dead. “And you’re sure Henri is working with Fernand and no longer living in this other place?”

“’E’s been the bane of the town for nigh on ten years now. I know.”

The three Inseparables shared a knowing look between them, not even having to confer before they knew their plan of action.

Athos turned back to Gaspar. “We are not asking for anything more than information. To put you or your family in danger would be a dishonorable feat. Will you offer further aid?”

“If it means gettin’ rid of Henri, I’d be ‘appy to help.”

Aramis gave a grateful nod.

“Tell us everything you know about the place.”

* * *

 D’Artagnan came to slowly, his vision flashing in and out as pain swamped him, making everything difficult. The positioning of his body did nothing for his injuries and the wet heave that he released rattled him more than he thought possible. Water trickled out of the side of his mouth, a byproduct of what was left over in his lungs. A cool breeze blew, ruffling his hair and sending him into a fit of shivers. Cracking his eyes open, d’Artagnan was welcomed to the sight of a dying fire and a motionless body curled up on the other side of the pit.

“Athos?” The name was croaked weakly, breaking around d’Artagnan’s tongue. The body started beside the embers, sitting up quickly and hurrying over to where the Gascon lay.

“No, Charles, it is I - Uncle Henri. How do you feel? I’ve tried to tend to you as best I can in these conditions but…” His sentence trailed off as he took in the young man before him, bruised, broken, bleeding and brown with dirt. “Here, let me get you some water!” Henri sprang up from his crouch and moved toward the saddle bags.

D’Artagnan’s heart sank with each passing moment. He was more than grateful that his uncle had rescued him, especially in his old age, but with that truth came the understanding that his brothers hadn’t come for him, leaving him to rot away in the dungeon below Fernand’s lawn.

“Now I know Fernand hasn’t been feeding you since you went missing, so I’ve brought some bread as well. I’ll soak the bread a bit, so you don’t have to chew much. Can’t imagine how that will feel.” He gave d’Artagnan a tentative smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling merrily.

D’Artagnan blinked through the fog of pain that lay over his mind and studied the man before him. His uncle was the only one in the small camp, but the vague flashes that d’Artagnan remembered from his rescue indicated that there had been at least one other person helping with the escape. Where was he now? Did he stay behind? Was he caught trying to protect someone he didn’t even know? D’Artagnan felt a lance of pain through his heart as he fought with the dark knowledge that it had not been Athos that had saved him from his fate. By no means was he complaining, but the small sliver of hope that he had left inside of him was quickly snuffed out by the reality of his situation.

 _Foolish_ , he chastised himself, locking his eyes on the back of his uncle as he gathered up the food. _Foolish to think that they would come for you after all they think you have done._ D’Artagnan knew it was impossible to expect them to forgive him for what he had been a part of - selling slaves - undercover or not. The crime was unforgivable and d’Artagnan knew that more than a few people had been sent off to a life of misery with the aid that he had given the slavers. Even for the greater good, it was a sorry fact that ate at his heart.

His heart.

A heart that had clung to the idea of rescue from Fernand by the hands of those he betrayed. He knew they would not come, but deep down he had still held that tiny flame of hope. One that had not even fizzled out under the watery throes of his last encounter with his tormentors. One that had flickered dully in the back of his mind until moments before; trapped in a sleep that spelled friendship and warmth and recovery. A sleep that offered forgiveness.

One that was now gone completely, eaten by the darkness of his soul.

He did not deserve rescue.

D’Artagnan opened his eyes to the presence beside him and forced down his growing nausea at the thought of food. “Eat up lad, you need to regain your strength. Not too much though, your stomach won’t be able to handle the sudden food. Here, try this water first.”

He heard his stomach growl traitorously at the thought of being fed. D’Artagnan had barely noticed his hunger pains during his time in the cellar, too consumed with his thirst to care. Nodding minutely, he allowed his uncle to bring the liquid up to his lips carefully, trickling a small amount into his mouth. The cool water soothed his burning insides as it trickled down his throat; another swallow, then another, until he was trying to greedily devour what was before him.

“Easy there, nephew,” Henri whispered, pulling the cup back from d’Artagnan’s lips. D’Artagnan followed the cup with his head as he tried to get more of the precious fluid he had longed for, but the movement sent pain lancing through his entire body, making him grunt quietly. “Careful d’Artagnan, we can’t be having you hurt anymore. God knows too much harm was done already, more than needed that’s for sure. Rest now and you can have more when you awaken.”

D’Artagnan didn’t even bother to respond as his eyes drifted closed without any intent of his own. He sank back toward the promised comfort of sleep, only pausing to wonder why any pain was needed at all.

* * *

 “Aramis, circle around the back and pick off the guard as soon as you can. We have no hope of getting in alone without being noticed, but we can at least buy some time. Porthos, take the left, and I’ll take the right. If what Gaspar told us is true, there should be no more than two for each of us. When we’ve finished, circle around to the front and dispatch anything patrolling the area.” The two nodded at Athos through the dark, turning to slip quietly off in either direction. After a moment, Athos followed behind Aramis, cutting out of the trees and crouching low as he moved across the impeccably kept lawn.

The two guards patrolled side by side, pacing back and forth along the side of the building. As he watched, Athos saw the two guards move methodically down the side of the house before turning and walking away from him again. Pulling out his main gauche and deftly wielding it, he came up behind the men unnoticed. The first guard went down silently, the gurgle of his dying breaths barely permeating the air. The second froze in shock, looking at his fallen comrade before finally realizing that he needed do something. Fumbling for his weapon, the guard opened his mouth to sound an alarm, but Athos was already there, clamping a hand over his mouth and felling him just as quietly.

Taking only enough time to make positive that they were dead, Athos skirted around to the front of the building, ducking back behind an opening in the wall when four guards moved jovially toward the fountain in the center of the lawn, making more noise than Athos thought possible. Whoever had trained these men obviously didn’t know what they were doing. Peering back around the edge of his small hiding area, Athos could see Porthos moving along the side of the wall toward the pack. Athos moved out from his hiding spot and inched forward, grabbing Porthos’ attention before they diverged from the wall together and made for the group.

Almost upon them, the two had just enough time to react to the shout that grabbed the guards’ attention. It came from the back of the manor, filling the once quiet air with noise. Porthos lunged, dispatching a guard quickly before he could even draw his weapon. The other three circled around the pair, forcing them back to back.

“So much for quiet,” Porthos joked, grinning at the guard closest to him. “O’ course it’s Aramis that causes the commotion.” He moved forward with blinding speed, dodging, feinting and finally running the next guard through. The two remaining guards exchanged uneasy glances as they turned and took off back up the steps of the manor, banging loudly upon the pristine, white doors before either of the musketeers could make a move to stop them.

Athos dispatched the first guard with no trouble, but the second foolishly turned around to fight, brandishing his sword sloppily at Porthos just as the doors began to swing open silently. The gasp could be heard as the guard was run through with Porthos’ rapier, the man slumping forward upon the musketeer. Moving him to the ground, Porthos started at the sound of Athos’ musket being prepared to fire, the click audible. Looking up cautiously, a man in pompous clothing and too much face powder stood casually in the center of the entrance looking with disdain at the mess around him.

Kicking out his foot in a graceful manner, the man nudged the final guard with his toe, checking to see if he was dead. When a small grunting sound emerged, the man shook his head in exasperation. “Honestly, how many times have I said ‘do not bleed all over the manor’? It’s filthy. It’s disgusting. I should have gotten rid of you lot a long time ago.” He rolled his eyes and inspected the top of his shoe for signs of blood before looking at the two armed men in front of him. “You must be here for your friend d’Artagnan. We’ve been having such fun together.”

His grin stretched from one corner of his face to the other, a brittle mask of joy.

* * *

 D’Artagnan felt his body scream with pain as it was hoisted up from where he must have fallen asleep on the ground, knocked out with the bone deep exhaustion that had all but claimed him. Waves of heat rolled through his body in a strange parody of the chilling shivers that he had suffered through only moments before. D’Artagnan was unable to open his mouth in protest at the unceremonious way his body was flopped onto something hard; something that started moving moments after he was placed down. He could feel the rough texture of the wood beneath him as it dug through his clothing into the tender flesh of his torso; could feel the strange itch that ignited itself all along the length of his body, urging him to reach down and rub viciously in an attempt to alleviate the sensation - a collaboration of pain and heat and irritation. His clothes chafed against his back with each rhythmic lurch of what he could only assume was a wagon.

Attempting to force his eyes open to confront whatever reality lay before him, panic slowly set in as his body refused to respond to his ever increasing demands. His sight remained dark, a mocking glimpse of his cell flashing before his eyes too quick for d’Artagnan to fight it off. Bringing his arm up to rub at the burn that dug deep under the surface of his skin, d’Artagnan had to fight down the waves of nausea that assaulted him when the only feeling that his hand registered was the ever present pebbles that rested just beneath it.

His heart fluttered with dread as a wave of lethargy washed over him, knocking him back toward sleep once more. Why couldn’t he move? Had Henri done something to him? His lungs wheezed as d’Artagnan tried to pull in a deep breath; a small cough and bitter despair his only reward. His body was no long his to control, it appeared, a thought that made him wish to be back with Fernand, where although he was not _free_ at least he could _move_.

A flash of heat ripped over d’Artagnan’s skin as he unwillingly allowed his terror to be stripped from him, falling back into the unconsciousness that was floating on the outskirts of his mind. His semi-conscious state wavered for a moment between full awareness - the flutter of eyelashes his only sign of wakefulness - and a never ending sleep, before the pull of rest won over and d’Artagnan knew no more.

* * *

 Harsh rasping coughs shook d’Artagnan’s body into his semi-aware state once more, the feel of his chest being ripped into a thousand pieces a big enough incentive to rise from his slumber. He struggled to pry his eyes open, to even flutter them in a mockery of his once strong state.

The cart beneath him lurched to a stop and moments later a gentle hand was pressed against his brow, feeling the fever that d’Artagnan knew was ravaging his body. A thousand wounds, a thousand pains, a thousand hurts and he would succumb to his death through a fever brought on by a bucket of water and a mountain of mistreatment. He shivered as a breeze blew viciously across his trembling body.

“D’Artagnan? Can you awaken for me? You have not been able to arise for some time.” Henri’s voice made d’Artagnan pause in this thoughts. It was something from the conscious world that he could focus on; an anchor that he could use to pull himself from the brink. He heaved, putting as much strength behind his attempts to force open his eyes as possible. Not even a quiver could be created.

“You must wake, d’Artagnan, you must. My plans are for naught if you do not resurface before we reach Treville,” Henri mumbled to himself quietly, moving away from his position beside the small motionless boy. “Water! Yes, water may help.”

D’Artagnan felt the press of a damp cloth forced to his lips, a small amount of the liquid upon it trickling down into the hollow of his mouth. It dribbled down his throat, forced by gravity as Henri lifted d’Artagnan’s head above the ground to help him. Even swallowing was too much for the wreaked Gascon. D’Artagnan tried to focus on what his uncle was saying, but all that played in his mind was an endless loop: Treville, Treville, Treville. How was he a man of consequence to Henri?

D’Artagnan’s head was lowered and his body repositioned carefully against the hard wooden boards after sometime, leaving him with his own thoughts. Treville? Yes. Treville.

* * *

 “Now, my new friend Aramis is waiting inside. I’m under the impression that you’re all quite fond of one another, if his reaction when I said I was going to escort you into the house was anything to go off of, but, nonetheless; here I am, happy to have new guests.” Athos’ eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, his musket leveled at the man’s chest. The stranger didn’t even bat an eye.

“Don’t be like that, Athos, we’re all friends here. D’Artagnan would agree. He’s told me so much about you. It is Athos, right? You look most like an Athos to me.” The musket moved closer to the man’s chest with each sentence that escaped his mouth. “I’m Fernand, by the way. You never can be sure what the locals have told new arrivals. Especially Gaspar, bless him. A bit muddled in the brain – tragic. I always start off with names, just to make sure everyone feels comfortable. Now that’s not a good way to make me feel comfortable, is it, Porthos?” Fernand squirmed slightly as the end of Porthos’ main gauche pushed sharply into his back.

“Where is Aramis?”

“Just through the back. Let me bring you to him.” Athos and Porthos exchanged weary glances at the helpful attitude of their strange captive, or captor, Athos wasn’t sure at this point. Porthos walked closely behind Fernand, one hand clamped on his shoulder and the other prepared to gut him if the need should arise. Taking up the rear, Athos inspected every dark room and side hallway for signs of life, finding none. Rounding the corner, the trio came across an immense room, with one lone occupant slumped in a chair in the center. Aramis blinked his eyes open groggily as they entered.

Moving quickly to his side, Athos scanned the room for a trap, coming up empty. Something was definitely wrong. Checking Aramis over for any obvious injuries, Athos gave Porthos a relieved nod when nothing appeared affected other than his head, which had received a sharp hit and was slowly leaking blood through the cloth that Aramis had pressed to it.

“’M all go’d ‘Thos,” Aramis slurred weakly from his seat. “S’not m’ faul… more came, d’Art gone.”

Athos looked worriedly at their resident medic, not sure what to do help him. Keep him awake, he knew that, but beyond what Aramis had told him when he himself had been concussed, Athos had no idea what needed to done. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos prod Fernand with his weapon, forcing him stumbling into the center of the room closer to where Athos and Aramis were placed. “Where’s d’Artagnan?” He growled, pain a promise on his breath. “If ya hurt ‘im…” The threat didn’t even have to be finished.

“Well, you see, we’ve been having quite the time together, d’Artagnan and I. Lots of games.” Fernand flashed them a smile. “He’s quite good, even broke a record for me. We’ve been drawing and talking and telling stories and playing what-makes-d’Artagnan-scream-the-loudest.” A snarl ripped from Porthos throat as Fernand talked, the evident suffering that d’Artagnan had endured being more than obvious to the trio, even in Aramis’ state. “How very uncivil of you,” Fernand tsked as he heard the sound. “How very _rude_. D’Artagnan wasn’t the politest either, until he stopped talking, that is… it must be a musketeer thing.”

Fernand gasped when skin broke beneath the knife that Porthos held abruptly to his neck. A thin trail of blood dripped from the corner of the wound. To Athos’ left, Aramis struggled to his feet, staggering more than lunging for the pompous man like he had intended. Athos snagged his arm before he could get too far and forced him back into his spot. “Let me and Porthos take care of this,” he whispered, “You must rest, my friend; we will find the lad.” Aramis opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by the treacherous man before them. 

“Porthos, friend, do take that blade off me. We all know you can’t kill me, not if you want to see your young companion again, and I’m certainly not inclined to aid you under these conditions. It is a simple rule of exchange; you give something to get something. I give you d’Artagnan’s location, you give me my life. See, easy. Win, win, wouldn’t you say?” The knife bit into him harder.

“’Ow’s about you bring me to ‘im and I won’t gut you slow? See, easy. Win, win, wouldn’t you say?” Fernand gulped, calm demeanor cracking under the harsh glare of the two imposing men before him and the slightly dazed look of Aramis.

“Interesting counter-offer. Quite intriguing.” A bead of sweat dropped from his hairline to run down his face. “How’s about I bring you to him, and you set me free? Seems fair, yes?”

Porthos looked at Athos over Fernand’s head, communicating everything he could not say out loud with his eyes: “I can’t kill him,” “We need him,” “He _knows_ we need him,” “He is afraid,” “He should be dead.” Athos nodded.

Walking forward, Athos pulled Fernand from Porthos’ grip, shoving him forcefully toward the back of the house. “Take me to him and you may not die tonight.” Fernand bobbed his head in a jerky yes. “Any men you have left on the premises tell me about now, for I will not stop myself from slaughtering you instantly if one should appear that I do not know about.”

“Let’s not be hasty.” A cold metal barrel ghosted across clammy flesh. “There’s no one else; not a soul. I sent them off, that I did.” Athos nodded and shoved him forward again.

“Wait!” The alarmed cry brought Athos up short, his hand snapping out to yank Fernand back toward him. Turning to look at the moderately more alert Aramis, Athos was surprised to see worry in his eyes. Staggering to his feet, Aramis shuffled toward the two, stopping directly in front of Fernand. “Why did you send them away? Where did you send them?” His tone was hurried; scared and rushed. “Why are they no longer here? What have you done?”

Athos replayed the words that Fernand had just spoken to him. _I sent them off._ Sent them off to do what? Why? It was a miracle that Aramis had caught the subtle mistake. “Where are they?” he bit out threateningly.

“Not here, there all gone; dead or gone, gone or dead. Just like your friend. Dead or gone. Gone or dead. Dead and gone. Trapped in a block, a cold stone box. Drip, drip, drip, drowning in the water. No air in his lungs. Blood on the floor, blood on his clothes, blood on his skin, blood on the knife. Drip, drip, drip. Down drips the water, down drips the blood. Plop, plop, plop. Dying, dying, dead.” Fernand let out a merciless cackle as Athos’ heart froze in his chest. “Or not… you never know.”

In his revulsion, Athos had let go of Fernand’s sleeve, horrified and too shocked to even notice as he inched closer to Athos’ body, hand twitching toward where Athos kept his knife. Seizing the weapon off Athos’ person, Fernand jerked his hand backward and plunged the blade through his chest, hilt deep in his spasming body. A gust of air escaped his lips, all the sound that left him before he was dropping like a rock to the floor, landing with a deafening thump in the stone silent room.

“NO! No, no, no, no,” Athos muttered as he lunged forward, pulling the now dying man into his arms. “Where is he? Tell me where he is!”

Fernand coughed, a gurgle of blood escaping from the side of his mouth. “Gone or dead. Dead or gone. Soon he’ll be dead and gone,” Fernand rasped quietly, blood coating his teeth through his weak grin. “Back to Paris, back to home. Now he’s gone, soon he’s dead. Everyone dead, everyone dead. My distraction worked and now I’m dead.” The faint flicker of light that sparkled in Fernand’s eye winked out suddenly. Dead, just as he had said.

Athos laid the body gently to the ground, his hands shaking before he curled them into fists and pressed them into the sides of his clothes, stopping the tremors. Aramis had slumped to the ground, waves of nausea washing over him from the concussion and the reality that lay on the horizon. Porthos moved over cautiously, his eyes deep pools of regret. Bending over Fernand, he pulled the blade from his chest and began to wipe it down with a small cloth from his pocket, the movements practiced and methodical.

“Back to Paris, back to home.” The words were mumbled from where Athos stood transfixed to the floor, eying the bloody mess before him. “Now he’s gone, soon he’s dead.” Porthos and Aramis both looked at him, eyes scanning his face for any emotion. “Back to Paris, back to home.” It was obvious what was being said. So plain that it was almost impossible in its simplicity. “He’s gone back to Paris, d’Artagnan is heading home.” Athos looked up at his closest friends, his eyes frantic. “Aramis, are you able to travel? We must get to him quickly. Something is terribly wrong.”

Aramis struggled to his feet, nodding his head affirmatively. “Athos, we have to be careful. What was he distracting us from? What was he willing to die for?”

Athos sighed and shook his head, unsure of any possible answer. “The why is not as important as the fact that we must save our young friend. He has been through enough.” A high pitched whine had taken up residence in Athos’ mind, muddling his thoughts and playing with him. His temples pounded with a newfound pain.

God, he needed a drink.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahhh!!! I'm sorry it took me so long to update. Thank you to everyone who wished me well on my holiday and to all of you who reviewed. It means a lot to me. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. The story will be coming to a close pretty soon so everything will start making sense by the next update.
> 
> Don't forget to bookmark, kudos or comment! Enjoy!

D’Artagnan’s fever-stricken body jolted around the back of the wagon, his temperature steadily climbing in its desperation to fight off the infection that was set into every tear of the Gascon’s flesh. His dehydration-crazed brain floated between unconsciousness and the hell that was his almost-waking moments.

He could detect the shifting of the cart as it listed from one side of the road to the other; he could sense the gentle caress of the wind as it bit at his skin with a thousand ice cold shards; he could hear the gentle voice of Porthos talking him to sleep and the cheerful jabs Aramis made in between gaps in Porthos’ story; he could feel Athos calming hand as it combed through his hair, brushing it back away from his eyes like he remembered from a night months ago when Athos thought d’Artagnan had been sleeping off the poison that counted as food in the rundown tavern they had been to.

D’Artagnan floated listlessly in a state of fog, enjoying the presence of his friends and dancing back and forth around Treville’s name - such a funny thing for Henri to say. He saw the letters – multicolored and moving. He watched the ‘r’ turn into a little hill that changed shape as each letter took their turn sliding down into the sea of ‘e’s at the bottom. He watched the ‘i’ perform a song of its own making on an oddly v-shaped lute. He watched the ‘t’ waltz carefully with the ‘l’, making sure to avoid tripping on its dress.

And then he watched himself getting chased by a mob of letters, each with a blue cloak, a brown pauldron and a dangerously glinting sword. D’Artagnan viewed the letters in sporadic little bursts of time - flashes of color and fun and terror, followed by worlds of black - while he listened to the sounds of Porthos and Aramis, the feeling of Athos’ fingers still stroking through his hair.

D’Artagnan’s exhaustion grew as he ran from a swarm of buzzing ‘v’s, his delusional mind racing with the realization that Treville was a nicely spelled name. It had a nice menagerie of letters. It had a nice sound. It had a nice _feel_. It was a _good name_.

At least for a bunch of homicidal letters.

* * *

 Aramis blinked away the mass of black that swirled in front of his eyes, concentrating on putting one foot down in front of the other without falling headfirst into Athos, who was walking briskly in front of him. His ears rang - a thumping tempo that broke out into a symphony every time Porthos’ suddenly booming voice filled the blessedly silent night. Aramis could see the beginnings of dawn shining through the trees ahead, the light biting at his skull like an angry dog gnawing hungrily on a precious bone.

The usually fun-loving musketeer groaned quietly to himself, the prospect of journeying for the entirety of the day - more than likely at breakneck speed - making him more than a little apprehensive of the next twenty four hours. His eyes drooped as they neared the horses, his mind foggy and sluggish. Blinking rapidly he moved to heave himself up into his saddle, pushing down the nauseous feeling in his stomach as he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. _D’Artagnan is more important_ , he chanted listlessly in his mind. _D’Artagnan is more important than this little headache that I have._

Deep down Aramis knew he shouldn’t be making sudden movements, let alone riding for a solid fourteen hours with no sleep and an empty stomach. If Aramis were any other person, he would have made them stay behind and recover at the inn. The medic in him knew this, the friend in him disagreed.

Aramis followed Athos from the small clearing where the three had left their horses earlier that night, the rear being closely bought up by Porthos. When they had moved out onto the wider path that lead back through the village and in the direction of Paris, Porthos peeled off the back of the line and urged his horse up to where Aramis was barely keeping up with Athos. He coughed loudly, catching Athos’ attention and causing Aramis to cringe in pain at the sound.

The sight Aramis made was painful to Athos, knowing that he could do nothing to ease the journey and unable to let up on the already fast pace that he had set for the three. Athos dropped back beside Aramis, protecting his other side and making Aramis smile appreciatively at two of the three most important people in his life. He knew that he had to push through the pain of his concussion, but he didn’t mind - not really - as long as he was reunited with the final member of his family.

Aramis’ mind continued to play a steady rhythm of suffering.

* * *

 D’Artagnan felt something wet pull him from the game he was playing with the end of his father’s cloak - a nice game with laughing and smiling and enjoyment.

A nice game with knives and blood and screaming.

It was a nice game that he would never get to see the end of. D’Artagnan sapped up the wet liquid at his lips greedily, but still…

He’d missed the final seconds of his game.

* * *

 Aramis could barely keep his eyes open as the day wore on and the sun rose progressively higher into the sky. He took the wordlessly offered canteen from Athos’ hands, forcing himself to drink down as much of the liquid as possible without emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground underneath him. Moving to the supplies that they had retrieved from the inn and pulling out a small pouch of powder, Aramis mixed some with water in the lid and downed it in one swallow. The powdered arnica helped numb the pain that was steadily increasing as the temperature rose and his sleepless day elongated.

Athos and Porthos talked in hushed whispers off to one side, careful not to make more noise than necessary, knowing that it would cause Aramis more undue pain. For this Aramis was grateful. More than anything he wanted to be back in Paris: d’Artagnan found, life repaired and happily asleep.

It was a shame most of Aramis’ dreams never came true.

* * *

 D’Artagnan eyed the mouse in his stew with distaste while Fernand flipped a coin back and forth in his hands, making it appear and disappear with ease.

“The mutton’s good,” he said, nodding toward the mouse dangling between d’Artagnan’s fingers. “You barely notice the taste when they trick you into liking it. The secret to a good trick? Making people look the wrong way. A game of sorts. You beat the record, boy. ”

D’Artagnan glanced at the mouse disbelievingly. When he glanced back up, Fernand was gone.

* * *

Athos watched hesitantly as Aramis lowered himself to the ground beside the river, his head listing to the side and his eyes sinking closed of their own accord. He was pale and sweating, unable to down much more than a few sips of water and a mouthful of bread. He moved to where Porthos was unbuckling the saddle of Aramis’ horse and setting it loose to join with the other two exhausted geldings that were already drinking water.

“We can let them rest for thirty minutes before we must continue on our way.”

Porthos sighed at the words but nodded in agreement. Looking at Aramis he responded, “It’s gettin’ harder and harder for ‘im to stay awake on ‘is horse. The blow to ‘is head must ‘ave been worse ‘en we thought. We’ve still got a few more hours before we’re back in Paris and the sun’s only just started sinkin’.”

Athos frowned and gauged the height of the sun above the horizon. “We have no choice but to continue before d’Artagnan is lost once more. How we are even going to find him once we return to Paris I have no hope of imagining, but until then we must continue on. Aramis will tell us when he has reached his limit. Still, we must watch him closely.” He paused. In a much quieter voice he continued on. “If we do not get him back I do not know what will become of me.” Maybe he was selfish in wanting d’Artagnan back for the sake of his sanity, but he carried no qualms with this knowledge. Losing two younger brothers would break him.

Porthos remained silent, a frown of concern gracing his face. He watched the horses as they rolled through the grass and drank their fill. He looked at Aramis - ghostly and sleeping - his face drawn with pain. He thought of d’Artagnan, unknown injuries marring his body and abandonment in his heart.

Porthos nodded and handed Athos the canteen.

* * *

 D’Artagnan killed the dog - the same dog he had raised and loved and cared for. His father smiled encouragingly.

“One should never get too attached to something that they can easily lose.”

D’Artagnan shot his father.

* * *

 Porthos nudged Aramis farther onto his horse, noticing him dropping off to one side as his eyes drooped. Aramis barely had the energy to direct an affronted look at him. He may feel like he was dying, but that didn’t mean he was going to just topple off his horse.

The edges of Paris were just coming into the scenery around them, the small farms becoming denser and the road widening into a street large enough for two carriages to pass beside each other comfortably.

Porthos peered through the darkness, hoping to see some sign of their young friend.

“We will find you. We _will_ find you, d’Artagnan.

Porthos barely caught the mumbled words to his left. Looking over, he saw Athos staring just as intently into the dark night, scanning for their lost companion.

* * *

 Henri pulled the worn brown hat farther down his face, obscuring his eyes and casting a shadow across his features. The longer he managed to go unrecognized the more chance he would have to confront Treville. Hefting d’Artagnan’s limp body higher in his arms, Henri approached the gate of the garrison, stumbling slightly and making enough noise to draw attention to himself. The boy was still alive, which boded well for this meeting. Treville would yell and ask questions and make demands, but only after he was sure that d’Artagnan was receiving the best possible care. That was when Henri would strike.

Henri let out a shout, alerting the guards on night watch of his arrival. Leveling their weapons at the odd mass stumbling forward in the dark, they advanced until the distinguishable shape of a haggard old man trembling under the burden of a limp body could be made out. Rushing forward, the two guards - one short and bulky with a curled mustache, the other slightly taller and older with graying hair and sagging wrinkles - carefully took the burden off of the unknown man. Panting, the man straightened out his back and smiled charmingly at the two guards.

“Thank you,” Henri gasped out between breaths, gulping in the night air. His breathing returning to normal, Henri bowed and continued talking. “I didn’t know where else to take him. Found him just lying in an alley back over there.” He gestured wildly behind him. “He mumbled something about musketeers. Said his name was d’Artagnan. Not really sure what he was talking about, but I thought I should bring him here. He’s obviously hurt.” Henri rang his hands anxiously in the air, fretting over the body in the smaller musketeer’s hands. “Can you help him? You can help him, right?”

Henri almost didn’t notice the furious look that passed between the two guards. They spoke back and forth in quiet, short sentences, turning and walking quickly away from Henri into the compound. Henri had to trot after them to keep up, slipping inside before anyone could tell him not to. The smaller of the two guards moved toward the light that rested upon one of the tables in the open yard, laying the body down and moving d’Artagnan’s hair away from his face to be able to see the features more clearly. Despite the trauma that d’Artagnan had been put through in the past week, he was still distinguishable underneath the layers of blood and dirt.

“It’s him, Ignace. Get Treville.”

The older man, Ignace, turned and moved swiftly toward the staircase leading up to the balcony around the upper level of the building, taking the stairs two at a time. Henri hung off to the side, hiding in the shadows and waiting for the captain to come down from the landing where he was talking in hushed whispers with Ignace. His cloak swishing with each step, Treville burst down the stairs, anxious and more than a little agitated. He moved over to d’Artagnan’s motionless body, checking for a pulse.

“Why haven’t you got a healer yet?” he snapped to the slowly forming group that had since arrived to see what the problem was.

“Sir, it’s d’Artagnan. Should we not be reporting his presence to the magistrate? He deserves no healer,” the shorter musketeer bit out.

Henri jerked in surprise. What _had_ his nephew done since he had last seen him?

Treville visible reddened with anger, the light from the lamp throwing shadows off his face. “Report him the magistrate? My God, what have I gotten him into? No, of course we will _not_ report him, Devin.” He moved to tower over the musketeer. “Now, _you_ are going to tell the healer that he is needed immediately and _I_ am going to do everything I can to save d’Artagnan’s life. Are we clear?” Devin’s head jerked angrily in the affirmative. Turning to the crowd Treville raised his voice to be heard above the chatter. “Once d’Artagnan’s fate is settled, be it good or ill, we are all going to have a long discussion about the many hardships that I have recently given to our young friend.”

Hefting d’Artagnan into his arms, Treville shot Devin on last stern glance, sending him racing toward the gates and the healers.

Henri saw his chance and he took it.

* * *

 D’Artagnan was floating in one of his increasingly rare semi-conscious states. Each jostled step ignited fiery tingles throughout his limbs; tingles that honed in on his broken bones and broken flesh and burnt through any semblance of comfort. The voices around him faded in and out - always familiar, always eliciting dread from deep within. He couldn’t quite place why hearing the familiar sounds of the garrison around him was a dangerous thing. He didn’t quite know why he was more afraid of being locked in the arms that carried him than he had been the whole time he was with Fernand. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure where his true fear stemmed from, but he knew that he needed to get away. He would remember, he told himself. It would come back to him when he could think clearly and move properly and breathe correctly. In the meantime, he needed to wake up.

D’Artagnan fought against the blanket that hung over his mind, trying to command his limbs to listen to what he wanted them to do. He channeled all his efforts into moving the arm that was draped precariously over the shoulder of the man that was holding him: the arm that was keeping him secure in his position. He heard a soft voice whispering to him: Treville speaking with his face under water. He heard an even less coherent shout: Henri yelling from a thousand leagues away. He heard panic: a handful of voices sharpening into a hundred.

The obvious commotion stirred d’Artagnan’s frazzled mind into a state of terror, his body rushing with adrenaline. He shoved, forcing every last bit of his strength into just _waking up_ and _moving._ All he wanted to do was break free from the grip that held him in place.

_They’re coming for me, they’re coming for me, they’re coming for me._

Who was coming for him? He didn’t really know. All he was aware of was that he needed to get lost before he got caught. He needed to make it out of his prison place before he was hung for his role in the slaving. He needed to go before Fernand caught up with him and carved more pictures. He needed to hide before Bernard tried to impress Fernand again with a bucket and some water.

He needed to be gone before Athos could see what depths he had fallen to.

It all happened in an instant, d’Artagnan’s senses not up to par with the world around him. The watery bang of the gun. The feeling of spinning away from his once secure position. The ripping of metal tearing through his side. The sense of dropping from a high perch. The sting of a new gaping wound that melted in with all his other aches as he hit the ground.

The shouts, the screams, the yells.

D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he had been the one to move or if the person carrying him had landed him in this position. If he was being completely honest with his fever crazed mind, d’Artagnan wasn’t sure of much anymore. He wasn’t sure if he was on the ground or underwater or in the air or in heaven. He wasn’t sure if he was alive or if he was dead or if he was dying. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be dead, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be living either. He wasn’t sure where he was, or what he was doing, or who was around him.

The only thing d’Artagnan _was_ sure of was that being shot was not nearly as painful when it happened a second time.

It was a peculiar thing to learn, considering that a person had to live through not one but two bullet holes to get to this conclusion. It wasn’t a very interesting thing to know. Not very useful either and… was it getting cold outside? D’Artagnan made out the muffled sounds of shouting, his mind heavy with increasing exhaustion. He’d sleep for a few moments and then he would see what all the commotion was about.

Just a few moments…

* * *

 The three brothers trotted their horses toward the center of Paris, heading in the direction of the garrison. Aramis bobbed dangerously on his horse, listing to one side precariously. Athos and Porthos flanked him, nudging him back into place every time he moved off of center.

Athos’ dread was growing with each passing hour that they were behind d’Artagnan and Henri, not knowing what was going on in front of them. He urged his horse on a little faster, drawing the last ounces of strength from the animal.

The streets around Porthos were familiar, getting more and more well-known as they neared the garrison. He nudged Aramis slightly to the left, earning himself a sharp look that was accompanied by a pained moan. “We’re jus’ abou-”

The harsh ring of a gun echoed through the quiet of the Paris night, bouncing off the edges of the buildings around them and amplifying in the empty space.

Athos and Porthos exchanged frantic looks with each other over the head of Aramis who was forcing himself to keep his meager rations inside his stomach.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos breathed into the night, launching his horse even faster toward the noise.

Aramis pictured their closest brother - hurt, alone, abandoned, bleeding - dying on the cold ground of Paris’ roads. His stomach rolled at the thought, his mind sang with pain, his ears rang with the sound of the gun and he promptly emptied his stomach over the side of his horse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: It is finally here! The chapter that had taken me three months to write. I apologize for the wait, but to make up for it (hopefully) the chapter is over 8000 words long and Henri offers up an explanation for his evil ways.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed, kudosed and bookmarked this story since the last chapter came out, it means the world to me.
> 
> Don't forget to tell me what you think about this chapter when your done reading. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Aramis was the first to spot the figure. He lay on his belly underneath the closed fruit stand as a swarm of musketeers raced by, not even acknowledging the three returning brothers. Aramis wouldn’t have even spotted the human-sized black blob if it weren’t for the fact that he was currently slumped against his horse’s neck, pale and nauseous, the sounds that had suddenly exploded everywhere bouncing around in his head. He barely noticed it in the beginning; thought it was a cat originally - albeit a large, grotesquely people-sized cat - but that was where Aramis’ mind went in times of pain and worry. It traveled to thoughts of fluffy animals that could eat people and soft lips that could eat him. If it weren’t for the coughing of the man-eating cat Aramis would have ignored it completely.

Unfortunately for the not-cat cat, its coughing was noticed by the hyper sensitive ears of the dazed musketeer; a very distinct, human-sounding cough.

Aramis blinked blearily at the shape, narrowing his eyes to see through the dark while he nudged his horse off the cobblestones to get a better look. Each step forward sent his head pounding, and he had almost convinced himself that his curiosity wasn’t worth this sort of pain, when the black shadow stilled as it noticed him approaching. Before Aramis could even grunt out a word to either Porthos or Athos, the shape had sprung out from underneath the stand and launched itself into the dark side road that was connected to the main street into Paris.

Porthos noticed him with a shout - spurring his horse forward to chase the fleeing shape - but Athos was already off like a shot, disappearing down the black path before Porthos had even reached the entrance. Aramis nudged his steed forward as well, forcing back the ever-present ache in his mind and moving perpendicular to where his friends had vanished, continuing down the road in the direction of the garrison. For a split second it crossed his mind that the two could be chasing shadows, but he quickly squashed the thought. What were the chances that a hiding figure fleeing from the musketeers wasn’t in some way connected to what they had all just heard? If nothing else, the person may have seen something that could point them toward Henri.

Aramis rounded the bend in the road, turning onto the street that the garrison opened into. It was pointless, he knew, to try and help his brothers catch the fleeing person. He would probably fall off his horse before he reached the man, and even if he did manage to catch up with him, he would probably fall over trying to climb off his horse to talk to the fellow. Aramis knew when he wasn’t good enough for a job. He knew that he would get in the way and only cause worry for Athos and Porthos. Aramis also knew that someone - pray let it not be d’Artagnan - was lying in a puddle of blood with a hole ripped through their body.

If Aramis was good at nothing else, he knew that he was more than satisfactory at healing. Better than the rest of the garrison, that was for sure. Probably better than some of the physicians that had stumbled their way out of school with a rudimentary education in medicine, consisting mostly of the understanding that bleeding a person was a more-than-reasonable way of healing a man already dying from loss of blood. Even if another musketeer did manage to convince one of the more sensible healers to come along, it would take them time to get back to the garrison; more time than it would take Aramis, at least.

His horse slipped through the gap left between the two doors that guarded the entrance to the grounds, the sound of his entrance drowned out by the racing feet of the men within as they grouped up to go out on the hunt or exited their quarters to find out what was happening in the courtyard below. A strange sort of artificial silence descended upon the men as they noticed him - first one, then several of their fellow soldiers turning with confused but solemn expressions to the newest arrival.

Aramis knew then - not that he hadn’t known deep down already that the bullet had torn through the missing link in the Inseparables’ band of brothers. He had hoped and prayed and believed, but God wasn’t answering his prayers; He hadn’t been for a while, in fact. That was something Aramis could overlook. Devoted faith was something that took dedication and contemplation and commitment. It was something he used to get through all of the devastating moments that had befallen him in his life - in Savoy. That had been the real solidification of his belief. He wasn’t sure if he would have made it through without his faith and his brothers. It was something that had helped him through his worst years.

But he wasn’t sure if he would be able to hold it in the same light if d’Artagnan died.

Swinging his legs over the side of his horse, Aramis dropped to the ground without a word, staggering as he tried to regain his balance while the world swam around him. A few shouts echoed through the air as people moved toward him to help, causing the drumming in his brain to increase in speed even more. He saw a hand move into view and grabbed onto it with relief, using the solidness of one of the older members of the guard - Thierry - to support him. He stood for a second, orienting himself among the swirl of noise and movement before responding to the questions Thierry whispered quietly into his ear.

“Have you been wounded?”

“S’only a hit to the head.”

“Where are the others?”

“Chasing down a suspect.”

“How can I help?

“Tell me where d’Artagnan is.”

Thierry nodded, grabbing gently onto Aramis’ elbow and steering him in the direction of the infirmary with a slow and measured pace. Aramis thought about throwing Thierry’s hand off his arm, but disposed of the idea instantly, as he swayed dangerously when a glass of water was shoved in front of him. Frowning at one of the over-eager recruits who had somehow turned up between the time that Henri had arrived and the moment Aramis had made his way into the garrison, Thierry grabbed the cup from dirty hands and continued forward.

Offering the water to Aramis as they made slow progress made it more than obvious to all those watching that, no matter how sick and tired, Aramis was not to be stopped. The final steps to the door of the infirmary were made almost in a run as Aramis shook off Thierry’s help and pushed open the door into the brightly lit room. Shadows danced in the corners as newly lit candles wavered on the tables, highlighting the red and black and blue body that lay shivering on top of a wooden bench. 

Aramis sucked in a gasp of air as he took in the sight before him. Treville stood, working frantically to staunch the flow of blood that was rapidly pooling on the floor, dripping over the edges of the bench. Moving forward as though in a dream, his headache drifting away as adrenaline flooded his body, Aramis came to rest beside the dying body of one of his closest friends. He stared blankly, almost unable to match the image before him with that of the jovial, energetic man that he had joked with only seven days before.

He saw Treville look at him; saw Thierry ask him a question; saw the ever helpful recruit who had brought him something to drink carry in a bowl of water.

The daze stopped. The fog cleared. A pain started behind his right eye from the bright light all around him.

“Move over.”

Treville let out a sound that could almost have been mistaken as relief if it weren’t for the fact that he was a hardened captain who ran one of the most elite groups of men in Europe. Inching to the side, he moved to make space for Aramis to work, noting the look of pure exhaustion that colored his expression. “What do you need us to do?” Treville asked. “I’ve sent Devin to fetch a medic already, but d’Artagnan might not last until they return at the rate he’s bleeding out.”

Aramis inspected the growing pool of blood one more time before grabbing the cup of water that Thierry still held and swallowing a mouthful in the hopes that it would calm his stomach. Dipping his hands into the bowl that the recruit had brought, he washed them as thoroughly as he could, cleaning off a layer of dirt that had formed during their rush back to Paris. The water was barely lukewarm, heated for a second if heated at all.

Turning to the recruit, Aramis eyed him up and down carefully. “What’s your name?”

“Marcel, sir.”

“How are you with blood, Marcel?”

“All right, sir.”

“Good, you’re going to fetch me a fresh, warm bowl of water and then I’m going to need your help. Do you think that you can do that for me?”

“Yes, sir!” Marcel glanced around nervously but didn’t move from his spot.

“Anytime today would be helpful, Marcel.” Aramis had already turned away from the agitated boy, his words making Marcel jump before he grabbed the dirty water and backed out of the room.

“Yes sir. Sorry, sir. I’m on my way, sir.” The door swung shut behind him with a bang that made Aramis hands tremble slightly with pain.

* * *

“Halt.”

Athos swerved around the escaping figure, bringing his steed to a stop in front of the running man as Porthos blocked the route back out of the alley. The hooded individual tried to dart around Athos’ horse, but the sharp edge of a sword stopped him in his tracks. Turning around - black cloak swaying in the wind - he retreated back the way he had come, stumbling to a halt when he almost plowed into Porthos, who had already dismounted from his horse’s back. Behind, the man heard Athos drop to the ground softly before a cool tip of metal was pressed into his back and his hood was ripped from his head.

Henri turned around slowly, his hands raised in front of him in a gesture of defeat as he tried to formulate a way to get away from these musketeers and make it out of the city unscathed. The two men before him seemed to match the descriptions of some of the musketeers that had come to rescue d’Artagnan - their dirty, haggard looks confirmed it more than anything else. Henri had men everywhere in his town and as soon as the musketeers had made their presence known, one of the gentlemen on his hefty payroll had slipped out of the tavern door and come to him with information. Less than an hour later, he was on his way to Paris, annoyed at the interruption to his otherwise flawless plan, but confident it would work out in the end.

And it had worked out - better than he had ever imagined it would. Treville may not be dead as he had originally planned, but he was going to wish he was by the time Henri’s plan played out.

“Surrender your arms at once,” Athos growled, his sword now held a hair’s breadth from Henri’s neck. “And tell us what you know of the shot fired not ten minutes ago.”

Athos could see the calculating look in the eyes of the old man before him. Was he Henri? There was no way of telling without a confession or the confirmation of someone else who knew the man, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t take him back to the garrison and question him later. He exchanged as look with Porthos over the man’s head as first a small hunting knife then a musket was passed over, an odd grin stretched across the fellow’s face.

“The boy’s dead,” the man responded, chuckling. “And justice could not have been sweeter. Loring, my boy, you are avenged.”

Who was Loring? But it didn’t matter now, in Athos’ mind that was as good as a confession. He would string Henri up before the whole of Paris to make sure that anyone who dared think off messing with d’Artagnan again would know what they would become; crow’s food. He would let d’Artagnan gut the monster himself if he so pleased. He would - Dead? Did Henri just say that d’Artagnan was dead? Athos shook his head to clear out the fog that had suddenly wrapped itself around his mind. No, he must have heard wrong. Must have misunderstood somehow.

Except…

Why then was Porthos suddenly shoving Henri against the cracked edge of the alley wall, shouting indistinguishable words as he heaved the man forward and then back again, smacking him forcibly into the stone surface?

Athos blinked a few time to make sure that the scene in front of him was real, not something brought on by the shock of such grotesque lies. He forced his mind to focus on what Porthos was saying; forced himself to walk forward in a daze; forced himself to pull his dear friend away from the murderer in their midst so as to stop Porthos from killing him; forced himself to look at the demon wrapped in the skin of a man and ask him one simple question.

“Why would you kill him, Henri?”

Henri leaned against the wall, catching his breath and shaking off the unexpected assault from Porthos. “You all killed my son. Years ago - many years ago - your kind killed my son. He was a beautiful boy; glorious and strong and smart. He had a way with the business, brought in the money like it was nothing. Then Treville - poisonous man - he came in the night and he killed my son.” Henri looked up into Athos eyes, the pain of remembering bright in his own. “You all killed him. Monsters - each and every one of you.”

“I don’t understand.” Athos had to gulp down a breath of air before he could continue. “I don’t - I don’t see-,” his voice cracked. “I don’t see what this has to do with d’Artagnan.” Porthos stepped closer to Athos, lending his support in the simplest of ways, through his warmth.

“It didn’t have anything to do with the boy, not at first. He was my flesh and blood - on my sister’s side - but that didn’t matter the moment he became a musketeer. The moment he became one of you he was dead to me. Except, I realized I could use him to help get me into the garrison - to get me close enough to Treville that I could end his tyrannical reign once and for all; end it for my son. Do you know how many times I’ve tried to finish that man’s life? How many people I’ve killed to get close to him?”

Porthos let out a growl that rattled up and down the dark alley and Athos’ eyes began to burn.

“It was a brilliant plan and then you three appeared. Ambled into my town with your self-sacrificing, sanctimonious attitudes and tried to save d’Artagnan before I was done with him - before I could see my vision finally come to life. So I went to Fernand and rode with the boy as quickly as I could toward Paris, practically fell off the horse when I was riding out of the field. Half dead he was - slumped over like a rag.”

Athos mind flashed back to a fleeting image of a rider and their sleeping companion disappearing into the trees on the other side of the manor’s large estate. Had that been d’Artagnan? He thought back to the color of the man’s clothes and the bright red dye of the slumped rider’s shirt. Not dye: blood. Athos bit back his pained gasp as he understood how close he had come - how close they had all come - to d’Artagnan. How close they had - Athos jerked himself out of his thoughts as he realized Henri was still talking.

“- didn’t mean for him to get hurt so bad. I’m not a brute, despite what you may think of me. I underestimated Fernand.” Henri started off at something he couldn’t see in the distance, remembering. Remembering what, Athos didn’t know and he didn’t particularly care either.

“’E’s dead,” Porthos cut in, drawing Henri’s eye.

The old man shrugged. “It matters little to me. Fernand was a means to an end, just as d’Artagnan was.”

Athos’ fingers ached to reach out and finish the man who had so carelessly destroyed the only light in his world; the only light since Thomas.

“I brought him here,” Henri continued, his eyes now closed as he replayed the final glorious moments of his revenge. “Brought him into the garrison - Pretended he was dying- Actually, he was dying- Never mind.” That train of thought was waved off without another word. “I brought him in and I could see it in his eyes. Treville looked at that broken mess of blood and skin and bones like I had looked at my son when I found him dead. He looked like his world was ending; he looked like guilt was eating him from the inside out. And then, when he discovered that the boy was still alive - His face broke out into this thing of joy. I couldn’t have that. It wasn’t right.” Henri’s voice had picked up in strength as the tale continued before he suddenly went quiet again.

A minute passed where no one moved. Silence smothered the otherwise beautiful Paris night.

“A life for a life - Treville’s for my son’s.” Henri spoke so softly that Athos had to strain his ears to hear. “But Treville had felt it. He had felt what I had felt in that moment - that pain. So I did the only thing that made sense. A life for a life - d’Artagnan’s for Loring’s. A son for a son.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

And then Athos let his anguish rage through the quiet streets of Paris until nothing was left but pain.

* * *

Aramis moved to Treville’s side, his hands already grabbing for the bloo- red cloth that was failing to keep any of d’Artagnan’s blood inside of his body. A faint wheezing could be heard issuing from d’Artagnan’s lungs. “What do you know?” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but Treville and Thierry pretended not to notice.

“The bullet entered his left side, close to his ribs, just as it did last time he was shot.” Aramis’ expression darkened considerably. D’Artagnan may have gotten over the lack of aim Athos had drunkenly displayed -they all had - but it was still as touchy subject when it was mentioned around the men; a subject that lead to thoughts of Constance and Milady and betrayal. The only grace that came from Treville’s slip was the fact that Athos wasn’t there to listen. Treville seemed not to notice as he continued to tell Aramis what he had managed to work out. “I wasn’t able to tell if the bullet had made it all the way through. You got here moments after I managed to bring him inside and his back is - God, what did I do?”

Aramis almost lost his focus when he looked at Treville’s face, wrecked with guilt. “I thought - I thought that I was making the right call. It was a hard call, but it felt right.”

Aramis swallowed down his blame before answering. “A man is built from his mistakes, not his triumphs. Next time you will know. Next time you will not fall victim to such faulty judgment.”

Treville said nothing, but it was clear he took the words to heart.

“D’Artagnan will make it through, Captain. He will rage against the storm and it will pass him by stronger than before.” Except, maybe he wouldn’t make it through and then what would become of the world that Aramis lived in? What would become of a world that no longer contained within it d’Artagnan?

Treville nodded his head in a barely noticeable jerk.

Aramis turned to Thierry, who had been watching the exchange with a tense expression upon his face. “I need you to help me roll him over. Stand on his other side and move him toward you so that he doesn’t fall off of the bench. Be as gentle as possible, I still don’t know what else had been done to him. I have to find an exit wound before I clean and stitch him up, otherwise we may have a problem.” Thierry nodded and moved to the other side of the bench, rolling d’Artagnan over with relative ease.

D’Artagnan’s back looked almost worse than his front, a cheap white shirt scarlet with blood hanging over his shoulders like a drape. The shirt was at least two sizes too big for d’Artagnan’s slight frame, but it did nothing to make him look larger. If anything, it swallowed him up in the extra fabric and gave the resemblance of a young boy wearing his father’s clothes.

“Here.” A small throwing knife was thrust by Treville into Aramis line of sight. Something passed between the two men silently. Recognition from both parties that they would do everything within their power make d’Artagnan pull through. A shared feeling of determination and fear and desperation and… their gaze broke and Aramis grabbed the knife gratefully, squeezing it tightly to stop another tremor that moved through his hand.

“I need one of you to reach underneath him and place your hand on top of mine. As soon as I move my hand, I need you to press down as hard as you can on the bullet hole. We need to put as much pressure as we can on it to stop the bleeding.” Thierry stretched out his hand and carefully wormed it underneath d’Artagnan’s body, pressing down hard as Aramis moved his own hand away and began to cut the shirt from d’Artagnan’s back. “Don’t worry about hurting him. It can’t get much worse than it already is.” A pitiful smile twitched across Thierry’s face.

The shirt peeled from d’Artagnan’s back in a wet squelch as Aramis finished ripping through the final frayed threads at the bottom. It was almost impossible to see the damage that had been inflicted upon the Gascon from the bullet. It was hard enough to tell where the blood ended and the open wounds and sickening scabs began.

“ _Mon Dieu!_ ”

Aramis heard heavy breathing behind him, followed by the sound of something clanking harshly onto one of the open tables and the retreating heaves of Marcel as he beat his way back out the door. It was strange that Aramis hadn’t heard him enter, but he would have expected the same vacancy from any soul that saw one of their brothers lying close to death on a bench, their back torn apart like minced meat. Peering closer, Aramis could tell that there was a pattern to the cuts; an almost unrecognizable shape that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. Curved lines and swirls could be made out from underneath some of the rust colored blood that smeared over d’Artagnan’s back to mask further damage.

Spotting a brighter red patch amid the underlay of brown, Aramis breathed out a sigh of relief. He could worry about the damage that had been levied upon his friend after he stopped him from bleeding out on the bench. It was a small miracle that the bullet had managed to travel clean through d’Artagnan’s body. It looked as though the bullet hadn’t managed to hit anything of importance either, having passed just under his ribs and startlingly close to his side. Had d’Artagnan been a few millimeters over, the bullet would have just managed to graze him.

Internally sending up a silent prayer of thanks, Aramis looked around him, spotting the bowl of steaming water that Marcel had conveniently placed on the table closest to the small group of men before rushing back out of the infirmary. A pile of clean rags sat beside the container. Grabbing one and pressing down over the exit wound, he turned to Treville. “I need you to press down on this just like Thierry is doing to stop the flow of blood. I have to grab some supplies to clean the wound and stitch him up.” Treville stepped forward automatically and held the fabric down, his face grim as he surveyed the damage that had been done to d’Artagnan’s back. “And Thierry, just stay where you are until I need to roll d’Artagnan over again.” The older musketeer nodded.

Backing away from the bench, Aramis wavered slightly on his feet as he turned toward the far wall of the infirmary to grab what he would need. A needle and thread. A bottle of strong whiskey. A coarse scrubbing cloth. On second thought, Aramis grabbed another bottle of whiskey and every clean bandage in sight. Returning to d’Artagnan’s side, he placed everything carefully down beside the warm water and got to work methodically.

Picking up one of the clean cloths beside the bowl, Aramis submerged it in water quickly before running it as gently as possible over the wet blood that covered d’Artagnan’s body. It took longer than he would like for the cloth to reveal skin underneath the sea of red. Making a separate pile beside the now dark pink bowl of water, Aramis threaded a needle before opening one of the bottles of whiskey.

“I’m going to need you to remove your hands now.” Treville lifted up his now wet cloth.

Dumping a sizable amount of alcohol onto the wound, Aramis grabbed another cloth to wash away the excess blood and liquid that flowed from and around the wound before throwing in quick, neat stitches. Aramis could feel the ever familiar sensation of thread through skin as he pulled the edges of the torn flesh together, making a tidy row of four. Putting the needle down - his eyes protesting from the detailed and precise work - Aramis rose unsteadily to his feet.

“We need to -” Treville shot out a hand to steady Aramis as he swayed. Desperation was a good motivator for Aramis, but even willpower did not conquer all.

“Aramis, I have stitched people up in my time. I can help if you need to take a break.” Thierry nodded along with Treville’s words.

“He may not be as neat as you, but his work holds just as well. I would know. I’ve had the pleasure of having Treville work on me back in the day.”

Aramis looked back and forth between the two older men. He saw the logic in what they said. Honestly, he understood where they were coming from; he just didn’t care. “No one touches him but me. We need to roll him back over so I can work on his other side.” The men hesitated for a split second before Thierry nodded and moved so that he could help flip d’Artagnan over. Treville pursed his lips in a frown but made no other display of disapproval.

They moved d’Artagnan quickly and Aramis set to work right away: cleaning out the wound with alcohol, throwing in four tidy stitches, cutting off the remains of thread. If anybody noticed the shaking of Aramis’ hand as he snipped the string nobody dared mention it.

“We need to move him to a table,” Aramis said has he placed the needle back with the other supplies. “This area is too covered with blood now, and I need to be able to stand to start assessing d’Artagnan’s injuries.” He bent down again to slide his hands underneath the Gascon’s body, but Treville was already there and carrying him to a table a few feet over. Lying him down on his back, Aramis took in the utter lack of movement from the young man. Not a single groan or twitch had escaped from d’Artagnan since Aramis had arrived.

Stepping up to the side of the bed, Aramis reached his hand out to place it upon the boy’s head, frowning when he could feel the heat radiate off of d’Artagnan’s forehead before Aramis had even stopped moving. “He’s running a fever already. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of the wounds on his back are infected, but I need to see if there is any other damage. Can you remove his breeches and smalls while I finish inspecting the upper portion of his body?” Thierry moved forward soundlessly and got to work.

Grabbing another clean cloth from the shrinking pile, Aramis dipped it in water and carefully ran it across the Gascon’s face, wiping away layers of dirt and flecks of blood. Small cuts adorned his visage, nicks and scratches that had scabbed over nicely and didn’t look inflamed. Combing his fingers carefully through d’Artagnan’s hair, Aramis felt a lump hidden under the muddy locks, probably from a nasty hit to the back of his head. Aramis’ own head shrieked its sympathy.

Depositing the already filthy rag, Aramis grabbed another and wet it again. “I’m going to need fresh warm water and more cloths.”

“I’ll get them,” Treville whispered from where he stood watching, something ugly and devastating in his eyes. In seconds he was gone.

_We’ll have to do something about Treville_ , Aramis mused as he ran the cloth gently down d’Artagnan’s neck and over his shoulder. They were both swollen beyond a normal size, but one of the shoulders bulged disturbingly, the joint obviously dislocated. The area around the joint was a mass of purple bruises, the swelling so intense that Aramis wasn’t even sure if it would be safe - or even possible - to move it back into the correct position without causing further damage. Icing the shoulder was probably the best option.

“Thierry? When you have finished would you be able to gather some cold cloths for d’Artagnan’s shoulder?”

The older man looked up and smiled. “Sure thing.” He paused before, “D’Artagnan’s was one of my favorite recruits and he is one of our most talented members, no matter what he’s been accused of.” Thierry’s words brought a ghost of a smile to Aramis’ eyes.

“He’s one of a kind, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. He was built to last too. He’ll fight through this, just make sure he knows that he has something he should be fighting for. Let him know he belongs.”

“He’s always belonged here with us; he just left before we could tell him. He left and-” Aramis’ voice broke off while he collected his thoughts. “He left and- and I’m worried he might never come back.” The last few words flowed out in a rush.

Thierry stared thoughtfully at Aramis’ expression - assessing. “Give him something to come back to, brother, and he’ll find the strength to return.” Striping off the last of d’Artagnan’s clothes, Thierry turned and left Aramis alone to work and think.

* * *

“He was- he was-” Athos was breathing hard as he pulled his arm back to land another blow against Henri’s arms as he crouched under them for protection. “Two brothers gone. Five years and not a day went by that I did not think of Thomas. Five years and then d’Artagnan. Five years and then I felt complete again.” He was aware that he was rambling; a ranting mess that gasped for air between the shaking of his body and the pounding of his fists.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

And then Porthos was there, pulling him off and dragging Henri from the ground, throwing the man gracelessly over the back of his horse. Athos stared, disjointed from reality, his knuckles stinging - painted a fiery red.

He was on his horse then - not sure how he had managed to get up there - riding for the garrison with only one though in his mind: d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan. The name beat over and over like the heavy chime of a clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Over and over and over.

D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan.

Pounding mercilessly - driving him on.

Driving him toward d’Artagnan’s cooling body.

* * *

Aramis moved his way methodically down d’Artagnan’s body, trying to pretend that he wasn’t working on one of the most important people who had ever entered his life. Washing as he went, Aramis rapidly worked through his supply of fresh, clean cloths. Treville and Thierry came in and out, bringing him supplies, food that went untouched and water that was sipped on once - when Aramis felt like he was going to collapse from the pain in his head. He swayed and his hands shook from his work, but Aramis made no move to stop.

The injuries continued to appear, long after Aramis thought that nothing could make what his strong, courageous brother had gone through any worse. He muttered words to d’Artagnan as he worked: fancy prayers, promises of comfort, declarations of love. Because they all loved him - Athos, Porthos and Aramis - loved him like the little brother they had never had; loved him like they loved each other; loved him like they loved themselves.

Placing a new, cold wrapping on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, Aramis surveyed the areas that he had already managed to clean. His front was free of dirt and blood, but what lay underneath was almost worse to look at. D’Artagnan’s entire left forearm was twisted at odd angles. As far as Aramis could make of the mess of bent bones, the whole hand and arm had been broken into multiple pieces - eight if he had counted right. The bones seemed to be in various stages of regrowth, something he wasn’t quite sure how had been accomplished. It didn’t matter at the moment, he could get the details from d’Artagnan later if he decided to share, right now, Aramis had to determine whether or not he wanted to break the bones and reset them or if he wanted to clean up the less horrific but equally troublesome wounds.

D’Artagnan had a mass of cuts all over his chest and legs. Some larger than others - mostly small scratches - but no less important to clean and dress. It was going to be a nightmare trying to fight off any infection that may have set in or would set in during the future days. His wrists were chafed - torn flesh a collection of cracked scabs and shiny sores. His right hand was missing three of five fingernails, the other two hanging on by small pieces of skin; barely-healing furrows dug through the soft skin that should have been covered by the nails.

Aramis had seen this once before. Long ago when he had just started as a recruit, one of the more seasoned musketeers had come back babbling about sharp sticks and ripped nails, dark men and mad creatures. He hadn’t lasted long, only getting enough time to gasp out what had happened - bandits more brave than usual - before he had succumbed to his wounds. This was what scared Aramis more than anything else; the thought that d’Artagnan would live but he wouldn’t be _d’Artagnan_. That what had happened during the last seven days since they had found where d’Artagnan was had somehow altered the Gascon’s mind. Aramis shoved the worry out of his head before it could consume him and continued on to the ribs. They were a mess of deep blacks and pale blues, faded greens and bright yellows. There wasn’t much that could be done for them except a firm wrapping, something that would help apply pressure to the bullet wound as well.

Without really making up his mind, Aramis grabbed what was closest to him - a splint that would have to be used to set d’Artagnan’s arm - and got to work. Pants of exertion could be heard from Aramis’ mouth as he carefully broke and realigned each bone; thanking God that d’Artagnan was not awake to feel what was happening. The force needed to reconstruct d’Artagnan’s hand into a familiar mass was immense, leaving Aramis sweating and blinking away black spots from his eyes by the time he had finished. Surveying his work carefully it was obvious that d’Artagnan might never get back full use of his hand, or any use actually. One could never tell with this type of injury.

He moved onto d’Artagnan’s fingers next, carefully removing the final remains of his finger nails before washing each divot with alcohol and wrapping everything carefully in a bandage. A few of the fingers had small slivers in them from unpolished wood that Aramis had to pull out. The skin left behind was puffy and red, soon to be infected if not already. Aramis would have to keep a careful eye on them. Moving onto the rest of the scratches, Aramis was relieved to see most of them had already scabbed over and were healing nicely. One long scab on d’Artagnan’s leg gave him slight worry, but if watched carefully, it would be okay.

Eying the ribs appraisingly, Aramis decided against doing anything for the moment, opting instead to find Thierry and have his help rolling d’Artagnan over to get to work on his other side. Much to Aramis’ surprise, Thierry was outside the door already, arguing with a short, stocky musketeer - Devin - and a healer that Aramis had never seen before, but could distinguish from the medical bag he carried with him. As soon as the door opened, all conversation between the three stopped. Aramis didn’t care what they had been arguing about. Honestly, he didn’t want the healer’s help. All he really wanted was to get Thierry and move d’Artagnan.

“I need help rolling him over.” Thierry nodded and moved inside, followed closely by Aramis, leaving Devin and the healer out on the doorstep. Moving over d’Artagnan, the two men rolled him gently onto his back while the healer entered.

Rushing forward, the healer attempted to push Aramis to the side. “What are you doing? Leave the boy before you injure him more! Now I am going to have to repair whatever damage you have managed to add to this evident lost cause.” The healer eyed d’Artagnan’s prone body with disdain. “Why you would want to help him, I have no idea. Devin told me everything on the way over.” Aramis turned to the healer, something dark flashing in his eyes, but the man continued to talk without noticing. “It would probably be better if we just let him succumb to his injuries. He will be hanged anyways, breaking the law and -”

Aramis didn’t really remember grabbing the healer by the collar and dragging him to the door. He didn’t really remember Devin’s shout of indignation or Thierry’s calming hand as he tried to convince Aramis to let go. He didn’t remember anything up until the moment he saw Athos and Porthos ride through the gate, a bundle of black wrapped around the front of Porthos’ horse. As soon as they spotted him, they angled their horses in his direction instantly, coming over to help. On his way past Treville, the unconscious man in front of Porthos seemed to slide off of the horse, hitting the ground with a thud. Porthos looked at the heap with no remorse, mumbled what sounded like “must’ve slipped off” and pulled up beside Athos they both dismounted.

Porthos’ face was grim, a far cry from what had only days before been the laughing smile of a joyous man, but it was the dead look in Athos’ eyes that really struck a chord with Aramis.

Moving to flank Aramis the healer’s nervous babbling ceased, intimidation setting in. The comfort of his friends was all the strength he needed. Letting go of the healer’s coat, Aramis looked him over with a disapproving eye. “I have already made this clear to Thierry, I have even made this clear to Treville; you will not touch him. No one will touch him. I will be the only one touching him. Now I am sorry to have wasted your time, but you are not needed here and I do not think you will be needed here anytime in the future if your attitude to an injured musketeer remains as it was. Devin will escort you out.” Effectively dismissing the two men, Aramis turned to his friends, swaying as he did so, and beckoned them inside. He wasn’t surprised to see Athos rush forward suddenly, a gasp that could only come across as joyous leaving his lips.

Porthos’ eyes swam with emotion as he blinked forcefully, fighting back tears. “’E’s not dead?”

Aramis looked at them for a moment - assessing - before he replied, “No.” He tilted his head to the side slightly and continued, “You thought that -?”

Athos nodded, looking up from where he was standing, staring down at the young man before him. “Henri said -” He broke off suddenly as a sharp wheezing filled the room, d’Artagnan’s breath coming out in rattling gasps. Looking toward Aramis frantically, the swordsman clenched his hands as he was pushed to the side so that Aramis could work.

“E’s not supposed ta be doin’ that is ‘e?” Porthos asked quietly from off to the side, concern creasing his features.

Aramis shook his head, pressing his ear close to d’Artagnan’s chest. “There must be fluid in his lungs. There’s nothing that I can do about it except pray that it clears up.” He looked at his two friends, drawing strength from their presence. “We need to roll him over onto his back so that I can continue checking his injuries.” Athos and Porthos were by his side in seconds, one at each end of d’Artagnan’s body, waiting for instructions. “You need to lift him up as carefully as possible and watch his -” Aramis broke off as he was hit with a sudden flash of dizziness.

“Aramis? Aramis, do you need to sit down? Should we get the other healer?” Athos asked, now more conscience than ever of the concussion that Aramis had managed to ignore the last hour or so.

Bracing himself against the edge of the table, Aramis waved their worry off. “I’m not resting until I’ve done everything in my power to make sure that d’Artagnan is all right.” There was no use arguing with Aramis when he had made up his mind. “Now roll him over please and be careful of his shoulder. I haven’t put it back in yet.” Closing his eyes for a moment to block out the light, Aramis braced himself for the coming hours and got to work.

* * *

Porthos had never seen anything like it. Sure, the Court had been vile and gruesome and cruel. Sure, he had saved more than one captive from their jailer. Sure, he had run through more men than he could count. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He remembered every face and every name and every body that dropped dead because of his hands. He remembered everything.

And he would have remembered something like this too, if he had ever seen it before.

It was all Porthos could do to not run Henri through as the hours passed and the injuries kept coming. The toll that it was taking on Aramis was impossible to miss; each quiver of his hands, each pained clench of his eyes, each broken gasp he let loose as he worked. If he didn’t stop soon he would collapse, but the trauma done to d’Artagnan’s body just kept coming and Aramis would not stop until his brother - part of his heart - was whole again.

If he was ever whole again.

How did someone survive something like d’Artagnan had gone through? How were they okay after the threat was gone? Even if his body made it through with only scars left over, what about his soul? Souls were the hardest thing to mend. Porthos would know, he and Athos were the ones who had helped put Aramis back together again after Savoy. But this wasn’t like that, not at all. Sure, both men had come back destroyed, but Aramis had had his two friends to come back to. What did d’Artagnan think he was returning to? People who scorned and hated him? People who lied, and betrayed him? Certainly he did not think he would be coming back to his people - to his brothers. Without a fighting spirit, what did d’Artagnan have that could possibly get him through the suffering he had endured?

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Porthos wasn’t sure that d’Artagnan _wanted_ to come back, and if he didn’t want to return… Porthos couldn’t think about it.

In front of him, Aramis tossed aside another bright red rag, the quiet squelch as it fell among the other cloths breaking up the silence in the room. Peering over Aramis’ shoulder, Porthos could see the violent swirls and curves that skated across d’Artagnan’s back, angry and inflamed.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” Athos breathed from across the table. “Do you see that? It’s - they’re - they make wings.”

Biting back the bile that threatened to work its way up Porthos’ throat, he looked more closely at the cuts that had ripped apart d’Artagnan’s back like a piece of cloth chopped apart for sewing. He could see it now that Athos pointed it out. The delicate tip of the wing on each side of d’Artagnan’s body; the small collection of feathers that made up the ruffled plumage; the broken, hanging angle of the left wing - a bird never again able to fly.

Aramis barely seemed to pay mind to the disgust and fury that swirled around him in the room. Reaching for a rough scrubbing brush, Aramis descended upon d’Artagnan’s back with a forcefulness that he hadn’t displayed before. Dragging the brush across the Gascon’s skin, the sharpshooter scrubbed open each wound, ripping away the scabs.

“What’re you doin’?” Porthos asked, shocked.

Without stopping Aramis replied, “I’m opening up the wounds to let out the infection. I need to drain and wash them out thoroughly before they can be bandaged.” First one wound and then the next opened, shiny yellow liquid spilling out of the gorges slowly. Porthos pressed a hand to his nose and coughed violently as the smell hit him, pungent and rotting. He looked to the door longingly, thinking of the fresh air that lay just outside, but he couldn’t do that to d’Artagnan. No; he would be here until the boy woke up.

He watched Aramis then. Watched him rinse and dry the wounds; watched him stitch up the portions that bit too deeply into the skin; watched him wrap d’Artagnan’s entire torso in clean, white strips of fabric that quickly became spotty with blood; watched him cover the boy’s dislocated shoulder with a cold compress that worked to bring down the swelling.

He watched Aramis stumble away from d’Artagnan’s body, swaying.

Then he wasn’t watching anymore. He was catching Aramis’ body as it dropped toward the ground. He was lifting him up gently and carrying him toward the bed that lay in the back of the infirmary, an open and inviting place for Aramis to get the rest he had denied himself all day.

And when he had finished watching, when he had finished working, then came the waiting.

As he changed the cold cloths on d’Artagnan’s shoulder he was waiting.

As he carefully dripped water down the boy’s throat he was waiting.

As he sat - racked with worry and guilt - longing for Aramis to awaken - praying for d’Artagnan to cough or groan or twitch a finger - he was waiting.

And then he was sleeping and Athos was waiting and his nightmares swam with visions of d’Artagnan lying dead in the ground, defeated.

Next came waking up, drenched in sweat and panting.

Then waiting - for hours and days and years.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: Look whose still around and updating! I am finally back with another chapter (after six freaking months - how is that even possible?) and I'm very pleased with how it turned out. I make no promises for when the next update will be, but I can tell you with certainty that there will only be two more chapters. I have them outlined already, so I just need to find the time to write them out.
> 
> Thank you to everyone that liked, followed or reviewed this story since my last update; it is very much appreciated. Special shout out to my wonderful beta, kitseybarbours, this would not be nearly as good without you.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys like it! Don't forget to leave a comment and tell me what you think. A favorite or a follow is much loved as well.
> 
> Until next time, enjoy!

Aramis jolted awake in the dark, his eyes searching out the source of whatever had woken him as his head pounded with pain, the slightest movement making him groan.

There is was again: that wet, wretched sound, as though someone’s lungs were being forced from their body. He groped around in the dark, rising slowly into a sitting position as the bed swayed underneath him like a boat out at sea. Aramis squinted into the darkness, eyes adjusting to the faint light that poured into the room, a glimmer of brightness cast from a marble moon. He could make out a few beds, a table, a single chair and- The coughing started up again. It stuttered off into a harsh wheezing that Aramis knew deep in his bones was a sure sign of suffering. The body heaved - up, down, once, twice - and then stilled suddenly, the sound of breathing no longer filling the entire room with noise.

It was nice, the silence. It gave Aramis a moment to catch his bearings and orient himself in the oddly familiar place. How had he gotten there? And his head, it was hurting because… he had been hit with something while trying to save d’Arta-. It came back in a rush and Aramis was across the room before he knew what was happening.

D’Artagnan.

Reaching a shaking hand out to touch the young man’s face, Aramis smoothed back his hair, feeling the damp skin of his forehead and the steady heat that pulsed from his body. A cough erupted from the Gascon’s lungs without any warning, painful and terrifying to Aramis’ medically trained ears. He had seen this before, once or twice when he walked through the streets of Paris, the homeless dying by the side of the road with no one to help them. The winter fever, it was called, deadly to almost everything that it touched, only the strongest of individuals making it out alive. Strong people that weren’t fighting off a million other possible places for infection. Strong people that weren’t nursing a broken heart.

Strong people that weren’t d’Artagnan.

The door swung inward, the flickering light of a candle dancing off the walls and playing tricks with Aramis’ already aching mind. Shielding his eyes with one hand and turning toward the door, he made out the looming body of Porthos, who quickly lowered the lantern in an attempt to relieve some of Aramis’ evident misery.

“’Ow are you feelin’?”

Aramis eyed the slumped shoulders and defeated stance of his strong, proud, optimistic brother. He felt like his head had been trampled by a herd of angry horses and his stomach had been churned like butter. He felt like death raked over the hot coals of a blacksmith’s fire. He felt like anything but his pristine condition would cause Porthos more worry than he could rightfully handle or deserved. He felt like Porthos had been taking care of himself all his life and now it was his turn to be looked after.

“I feel much better after having slept a while. How long was I asleep?”

He could feel Porthos’ eyes looking at him for any sign of pain, not fully believing that Aramis was telling the truth. “About six hours. I stepped out to see ‘ow Athos was ‘andling everything. ‘E seems to be ready to knock down the Captain’s door if ‘e doesn’t ‘ear anythin’ about Henri soon.”

“No news, then, about what happened while d’Artagnan was gone?”

“None. Nothin’ new, at least. ‘Ow’s the pup?”

Another bout of coughing erupted from d’Artagnan’s chest, effectively answering Porthos’ question; Aramis responded anyway. “He has a fever, and from the sound of it there’s fluid in his lungs. I’m not sure- If the-” He sighed and scrubbed tiredly at his eyes, swaying slightly on his feet. “If his fever doesn’t break soon, I don’t think he’ll - ” He tried again. “With the infection that he is going to have to fight off, as well the chances of him withstanding the winter fever there’s nothing I can-” A heaving breath escaped him. “Porthos, I don’t know what to do.”

A faint wheezing was all that could be heard as Porthos processed what Aramis had just said. It was agonizing, standing beside the bed of someone he cherished as a brother, not knowing what would make him whole again. It wasn’t just d’Artagnan who was relying on him for life and comfort and protection, it was Athos - who couldn’t handle the loss of another younger brother - and Porthos - who didn’t deserve any more heartache in his life. It was himself, too - he wouldn’t be able to live, knowing that one quarter of his heart was black and withered and rotting in the ground in some abandoned field in Paris, surrounded by the dead and the lost and the empty bodies of people d’Artagnan had never known.

* * *

Porthos stared Aramis down as the marksman’s eyes slipped off into the distance, staring at nothing but the shadows playing across the black walls of the room. He had led a life of misery, a life of death and despair and destruction that would have eclipsed the warm soul of a lesser man than Aramis, eclipsed it so thoroughly that the black parts of his heart would have bled into every crack of his being, and the laughing, joking, _living_ Aramis that Porthos held close to his heart would have disappeared forever, swallowed by misery. Porthos had always been thankful for the opportunity to wrench his friend back from the edge of destruction. Destruction brought on by love and hope and Savoy.

Destruction like the death of a precious brother.

The truth of the matter was plain - more obvious than each breath he took to live - that if d’Artagnan died, than he would take Aramis to the grave with him, and they would drag Athos close behind, drowned in a bottle of self-depreciating hate. Even if the Gascon’s body was cold and rotting in the ground and Aramis’ and Athos’ souls still remained trapped in living, breathing specimens; even then, it would be as if they had all died and left Porthos behind. A scared child in a desperate life; abandoned.

His friends were resilient, by God, didn’t he know that; but even the strongest of men break under the crushing force of another death, another life lost; a life that shook them to their very cores and built them up stronger and bigger and better than they had ever been. All three had loved _each other_ , but d’Artagnan had taught them how to love another again. He had opened their hearts and _shown_ them what it was like to bare your soul to another human being, one that asked for nothing but companionship in exchange. Sure they had fallen in love through the years, and yes, they had found their souls in one another, but now - now they had found the glue that kept their souls from tearing apart in a great tidal wave of suffering.

If the glue died, the souls would die, and three more empty shells would be left wandering the earth, waiting until they could see d’Artagnan again.

Waiting until he could stick them back together in a parody of their past selves.

But right now, before all of this death and brokenheartedness could happen, before any of their lives could be ripped to shreds by one small pup from Gascony - before any of that, there was Aramis, fighting to be strong: swaying listlessly from pain he tried to hide, lost and confused and _needing_ someone to point him in the right direction.

Porthos wasn’t good at speeches or medicine or stitches. He couldn’t bring morale to an army or coax the dying back to life. He had no special talents that he could boast of and wield in defense of those he loved. He knew these things, but he also knew how to help his friends, even when the open, vulnerable parts of him wanted to shrink back from the overflowing edges of his heart in a last desperate attempt to shield himself form inevitable suffering.

“You say ya don’t know what ta do?”

Aramis jolted up and looked at Porthos again. He gave the smallest of nods, sad and defeated.

“Tell me what’s wrong with ‘im and we’ll work it out together.”

“Where to begin, where to to begin? Everything’s wrong at this point,” and Aramis sat gently on the edge of d’Artagnan’s bed and sucked in large mouthfuls of air, before he split his soul on the ground and viciously tried to hold back the wretched tears that escaped his eyes as he bared the incapable truth of his useless skills to Porthos.

When he was done - the candles burnt low and the steady throbbing in his skull a never-ending reminder of his failure - when he had gone over every symptom and cure and processed all the possible reasons that d’Artagnan was likely to die, when he had exhausted all possible roots and ways of helping put his knowledge into practice - when all of this was over, Porthos spoke, and the simple words ate at his heart because Aramis was the one that was tasked with saving d’Artagnan. He was the one that had trained for years for a moment like this, where someone he loved was slipping off into the void before his very eyes. Now, though, he was the one who had frozen, his mind stalling over the simplest of plans, the easiest of remedies, the most important of fixes; and when Porthos said, “Why don’t ya try to bring ‘is fever down?” Aramis’ brain stuttered to a stop for a moment of awe-inspiring self-hatred, before he was up and moving, shoving the panic far enough away to allow himself to _think_.

“Yes. Right. I have to at least try and bring the fever down. I need cold water, a tub full of it, and - _mon dieu,_ I hope this works - we need to move him into it before his temperature rises any higher.”

Now the tub was filling and d’Artagnan - still coughing - was placed inside, his body thrashing upon contact with the water that was warming up slowly as it sapped the heat from d’Artagnan’s body. Aramis paced, because if this was what killed him - the shock and the cold and the callous clutches of the bathtub - if this was what did the young man’s heart in, Aramis wasn’t sure that he’d be able to hold back from drowning himself in the water right after.

They pulled him from the water some time later, fishing him out of the tub - naked and shivering - to place him on the bed. Porthos left, out into the bright light of the morning sun, off to see what had become of their sullen, seething friend, while Aramis stripped d’Artagnan’s bandages and scrubbed out the infection until it bled red, and checked the mottled, purple shoulder that still sat at a grotesque angle, and then - exhausted - passed out in the cot beside d’Artagnan’s, the cool feel of skin heavenly under his hands.

* * *

Treville sat in silence. Athos had been there, pacing up and down the floor, quiet and deadly and trying to compose himself enough to string together a few sentences that wouldn’t have him thrown from the regiment or tied up for treason, or result in the murder of the vindictive, laughing Henri, who had, only moments before, passed out in the corner of the room. If Henri had happened to have help with this, Treville wasn’t one to place blame on anyone in the general vicinity, Athos included.

He had heard the whole story, spewing from Athos’ mouth in a jumble of vivid sounds that slotted together in Treville’s mind to form a mixed-up idea of what had happened. Henri had interjected occasionally, overflowing with pride in his work, rejoicing as each second brought Athos closer and closer to the edge of despair. Treville had understood in the end, when the puzzle had clicked into place and Henri had slumped over, silent at last.

It had started years and years ago - back when Treville was young and not in charge, and slaving ran rampant in the streets, people’s hands running red with the blood of bought bodies. He remembered it clearly - only because it was the first life he had ever taken, a new recruit with something to prove and a world to conquer. The victorious grin was plastered across the face of the man before him - no older than he - his teeth stretched wide in a mockery of a smile, his eyes alight with the successful trade, his pockets weighted down with money from his deal.

The man had tried to talk his way to freedom - had tried to siphon the blame onto everyone around him - and when that had failed to give him the desired result, he had stabbed the nearest musketeer in the back and run, hoping that the rest of the guard would be distracted with the injury. It was an obvious ploy, a desperate bid for freedom, and it had made Treville’s vision run red as he hunted the man through the streets and delivered the final blow that at last stopped the dangerous attacks of the slaver before him. He had never known the name of the crook he had killed - he hadn’t really cared, if he was being honest; a criminal was a criminal - but when Henri blurted out “Loring” in such a profound display of anger and love, it fit the long-dead body perfectly.

The tale had picked up from there, choppy and incomplete, but Treville was able to fill in most of the missing pieces. He had climbed the ranks, and while he worked and bled and killed for his position, Henri had been working and bleeding and killing too: working to amass a fortune to fuel his revenge - always hiding behind Fernand’s father, the head of the company; bleeding in pursuit of his one final goal - tearing apart bodies and tearing apart lives; killing to claw his way, inch by inch, closer to where Treville was always waiting.

It explained the musketeers that had shown up through the years, “caught by bandits” and broken beyond recognition. It explained the dead bodies of Treville’s most undercover of men - found in the alley when they had discovered the truth. It explained the elaborate letter and the ruse and the way that everything had been orchestrated solely to drive d’Artagnan into Henri’s arms - the easiest bridge to getting to Treville. It explained why Treville felt constantly watched, why he somehow managed to get into deadly situations more than his men, why he never felt safe, even in his own home.

For Athos it explained things too: the grand splendor of the mansion, bought on the backs of slave labor; the crazed psychology of Fernand, manipulated since youth by his father’s second in command; the broken bones of his youngest brother, dying not fifty yards away. It explained things, yes, but it didn’t stop Athos from hurtling across the room during one of Henri’s fits of mirth to pry the joy - in the form of a death tight grip around Henri’s neck - from his body.

This was what had gotten Treville to where he was now, sitting in silence - deep in thought, having thrown Athos bodily from the room after telling him the time of his formal address to the troops - with the sounds of Athos’ pacing boots thumping hollowly back and forth behind Treville’s now-locked door, waiting for information.

It was obvious that Henri would hang for his crimes - the man had admitted to them himself - but what rankled Treville’s nerves more than anything was how he had missed this, something that had grown in the streets of Paris - his city - for years. Was he even fit to serve his men if their deaths, the foundation of a shipping empire and the potential death of d’Artagnan had been built on the back of his ignorance and inability to see what was right in front of him? Did he want to work for something that he had failed so monumentally?

And what was he to say to his men in the coming hours, when everything came out in the light and his deception - his slander of d’Artagnan - was finally known?

He needed to prepare what he was going to say, that was obvious; but what did he want to tell them?

* * *

Porthos shouldered his way through the laughing crowd around him - here a man, drunk before the sun had even fully risen in the sky; there, a small waitress, swinging her hips in a bid to get any tips she could gather. Finally he spotted him - a slumped heap in the farthest corner of the tavern, downing first one glass, then another, of expensive red wine. Porthos slipped into the seat across from Athos, grabbing the half empty wine bottle before Athos could refill his glass.

“Any news of what’s to ‘appen to Henri?” Porthos asked, moving the bottle out of reach of Athos’ grasping fingers. Athos listed forward in his chair as he made another lunge for the flagon before abandoning the hopeless pursuit and catching the attention of the server, signaling for another. “Athos, what did ‘e tell you?”

“Treville has promised to leave out any indication that d’Artagnan was not operating under his orders the entire time, and he is to address the regiment an hour before sundown, which leaves me ample time to drink my fill before any more news comes our way.”

“Or you could go visit the boy,” Porthos growled, all too aware of what was happening.

“Visit him? What is the point of seeing a wilting flower before it dies? I have no need to see him.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes. He could already see it, see the walls slamming down around Athos’ mind and the shields coming up around his heart, cutting everything off from him and locking him in a room of misery. “Ya don’t mean that.” He pushed the words out forcefully, hoping that Athos’ fortifications had not already had time to cement themselves into place.

A flicker of doubt, a shadow of despair, and then: “No, I don’t, but the fact remains: I’ll do more harm than good if I go to see him, especially in this state.”

“’E’s not even awake yet. Come see ‘im before it’s too late.” Porthos was almost pleading now. If the unspeakable did happen and the Gascon didn’t make it through the next few days, Athos would regret his neglect for the rest of his life. The server arrived with the second bottle and Athos tipped it to his lips instantly, a small trickle of blood red liquid slipping down the side of his mouth. “Ya can’t chase this feelin’ away with a bottle, Athos, it just can’t be done.” Athos lowered the bottle slowly to the table and eyed Porthos like one would eye a small, annoying fly. “A broken heart doesn’t mend this way.”

Athos’ eyes hardened and Porthos could tell he had overstepped his mark. Fine; if Athos wanted to waste away in misery while his friends ached and burned and longed for comfort, while his smallest brother melted away on a bed of pain and bad memories, if that was what Athos really wanted, the heartache that it caused him was not Porthos’ fault.

“Aramis may fix broken bones, but wine mends broken hearts. This tavern is the finest apothecary in all of Paris.” To punctuate his remark, Athos took another swig from his now full cup.

Scraping his chair back, Porthos pushed himself to his feet. “You are depriving some poor village of its idiot,” Porthos muttered shakily. He couldn’t remember ever having been filled with such anger and disappointment in his life. He had known this would happen, it was the way in which Athos coped with the broken pieces of his being; but right now, that was not enough to calm Porthos’ nerves.

* * *

The blood-red sun dipped below the Parisian buildings that lined the streets encompassing the garrison, spilling maroon fingers out into the gathering darkness, the beginnings of constellations appearing haphazardly in the sky. Athos stumbled - more drunk that he had intended, but less so than he had hoped - making his way toward Treville’s address, exhausted, with as much vigour as he could manage three bottles in, eyes red and dry from hours spent drowning his sorrows in tears and wine.

He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t expected the liquid to come spilling down his face like a small river, carving canyons into his cheeks and leaving scorch marks on his pride. They had started suddenly - without warning - and he had slipped out the back of the tavern before a soul could notice, trying desperately to stamp them back into the crumbling dam that was his heart before they got so bad that they never stopped and they washed the streets of Paris with his shame.

Athos had snuffed them out, finally, minutes before, and now he was making his mad, drunken crusade to a speech that would explain everything and nothing all in the same breath; a speech that was already almost over before he had even entered the compound. He slipped in behind a small cluster of recruits at the entrance, hiding in the wings and listening with an intensity that only the young could muster: the young or the very, very desperate.

When Athos stopped to listen, he blended in with them perfectly.

Treville was at the front, standing above the assembled group of men, pacing back and forth as he talked, frowning. Athos could make out Porthos and Aramis against the opposite wall, standing just outside the door to the infirmary, their eyes hard as Treville talked.

“…were trying to kill him. And so, with the best of intentions, I told you all a lie that I can never take back: a lie that endangered not only d’Artagnan, but Porthos, Aramis, Athos, myself” - Treville paused and sucked in a deep breath before continuing on - “and all of you. I made you believe that someone you should call a brother - and make no mistake, he _is_ still a brother to all of you - I made you believe that he had done something abhorrent, something unimaginable. I let you run him off like a dog and hunt the streets for his return. I let you believe he had committed these crimes and would be hanged as soon as he was caught.

There was never an order for his arrest, not one that mattered at least. Had you caught him and brought him in, I would have found another way to make him flee the city. I did -” He broke off suddenly and seemed to compose himself. “I did this because I thought it would protect him. I thought it would keep him from Paris and make him live out his days quietly, somewhere he could never be found by the people that hunted him. It is plain to all those here that what I was hoping to achieve did not, in fact, come into being. Instead, I made it much worse - for everyone involved, but especially for d’Artagnan.”

Men shifted around Athos and he could feel the anger and betrayal that they all held within them roll from their bodies like waves. Their trust had been used against them, used against one of their own. They had believed Treville; the position and power and respect that he commanded made it almost impossible for them not to - until now. Now, Athos could not see one musketeer who seemed content with Treville’s explanation; not one musketeer who seemed happy to let the issue lie peacefully at their feet. The unrest was rising, but Treville carried on.

“Because of this reason, I do not feel that I can - or rightfully deserve to - lead you as my men any longer. I have done something that is unforgivable, and I am now doing everything I can to make it right. So, the moment Henri hangs from the noose - once my final mission is done - I will no longer be the captain of the King’s Guard.” Another pause. “It has been an honour to serve with you all.” Treville bowed his head and turned back toward the stairs, making his way up them as the courtyard erupted around Athos, exclamations and complaints rising into the rapidly darkening sky.

 _Good_ , Athos thought. Objectively, he could say that Treville had been a great leader, but he was not prepared to forgive a lapse in judgment so momentous as this - and perhaps never would be.

Athos looked across the yard again, ignoring the sounds around him, and saw Porthos and Aramis disappear back into d’Artagnan’s room. He took two slow, cautious steps in the direction of his disappearing friends before spinning on his heel - stumbling slightly - and heading back out the gate toward his lodgings and, more importantly, another bottle of wine; anything to try and close up the gaping hole that had opened in his chest and threatened to grow and grow until it swallowed him whole, leaving nothing to be found of him but empty flasks and a pile of clothes.

He walked on impulse - memories from a better time, only one week before: a left, a right, another left and then down the street until he came upon the small collection of rooms tucked into a quiet , and rather nice, nook in the middle of Paris.

He unlocked the door, took his shoes off, removed his jacket and dropped his pauldron and weapons belt onto the the floor.

He took the steps - left foot, right foot, left foot - toward the wine cellar, and then his throat was burning from the sounds ripping from it; his lungs were aching from the heaving gasps he tried to suck in to control the fiery tears that poured down his face; his house was breaking as he tore through it, ripping tables and chairs and plates from their places in the corner and on the floor and in the cupboard, before he hurled them across the room in an attempt to make that hole in his chest just stop _pulsing,_ like a second heart hellbent on killing him.

He needed _people_ to close it - he knew that from when Thomas, then his wife, had suddenly been ripped out of his life - but he did not deserve to be with the people that he had caused so much pain.

He did not deserve to seek them out for comfort.

Athos thought of d’Artagnan, lying dying on a pallet, surrounded by Porthos and Aramis. He wanted to be there - oh, God, how he wanted to make his presence known - but that would only be a comfort to his own aching soul and d’Artagnan did not need to be forced to fix a man that had done so little to help him already.

Athos sank to the floor of his ruined quarters, shivering and gasping and quaking, until he could not hold his head up any longer and he dropped into a fitful sleep full of nightmares.

* * *

The searing pain was back. It came in great waves that crashed over d’Artagnan’s body, eating away at his sanity. He had been dreaming, dreaming of the hours and days and months that he had been locked inside that burning house, searching and screaming and praying that Athos was alright. He had found him then, the manor crumbling to the ground around them, and he had tried - oh, how he had tried - but he couldn’t manage to pull a drunken Athos through the front doors of the building. He’d pulled and pulled, but Bonnaire had appeared, shipping plans in hand - fish packed into a barrel - and he steered d’Artagnan away, deeper into the fiery pits of the house, deeper and deeper - and he was looking for Athos, burning away in his mansion. D’Artagnan was hoping and wishing and desperately hunting down the most important man in his life, but Bonnaire was suddenly there, dragging him off into the inner parts of the blazing inferno and then - he had to find Athos. He _had_ to find him; it was desperately important, but… was that rain on his face?

He felt as though his body had been plunged into ice water as the rain pelted down around him and he reached, crying, to pull Athos’ body toward him. A bright, shining bullet wound glared at him through the gloom of the rain and Athos was burning away before his eyes, melting into an old man who gasped for each dying breath and whispered - whispered so quietly that d’Artagnan could not hear what he was saying. He ached to help, but he was so cold, the pain of it clawing deep into his bones, taking root and swelling into an icy hold that cracked him apart with each watery breath he took.

His lungs heaved with each gasp and he was in the dark cellar, Fernand carving open his back, laughing at him as Aramis danced around d’Artagnan’s hanging body, poking and prodding and digging into all the injured parts of his being, ripping and tearing and clawing until he held d’Artagnan’s heart in his hands - still pumping. Aramis was turning, smiling triumphantly, and Porthos was grinning beside him, happier than he had ever been, eyes alight with glee.

“’Ow’s ‘e doin’ Aramis?” he said, and the gentle, concerned tone of voice was at complete odds with the vicious gleam in his eye. “Did the bath ‘elp ‘im any?”

 _What bath?_ D’Artagnan wondered. He had been frozen in that rain, watching Athos’ body turn to ash in his hands. _Why would you care? I helped sell you; I helped sell you all!_ He wanted to scream, to tear his hair out at the roots and pound his fists into the ground. He wanted to shut his eyes to block out that insufferable light that was breaking apart the edges of his vision, making Porthos’ face flash in and out - fuzzy; a sadistic grin - clear; a wondering expression - and back and forth and back again, until d’Artagnan’s head swam with confusion and his body crawled with sweat.

He blinked - once, twice, three times - and Aramis’ face loomed into view beside Porthos’, glowing with joy and fatigue. D’Artagnan stared, fear coursing through his veins as he pictured his heart beating in Aramis’ open palm, smile stretched wide over taunting teeth. He wasn’t chained to the wall anymore - Fernand was nowhere to be seen - and he tried to heave his body away from the faces before him, from the bodies that he knew would rip him apart piece by piece. His muscles twitched and his body erupted in burning agony, each part of his skin alight with flickering flashes of pain.

It was intense, bowling him over with its power, making him still all of his muscles, torn between fleeing from the two men in front of him and in retreating back into the calm, quiet, painless depths of his mind. A rattling breath escaped him, sending his body into coughing fits that would not subside despite his efforts to force small, even breaths into his lungs. Porthos’ mouth moved, his eyes glowing, and the pain spirited d’Artagnan away, pulling him back into the icy rain of the night, dripping down, down, down around him as he stared at Vadim across a field of mud, a flashing coin flipping before his eyes.

He could feel it, deep in his bones, the overwhelming urge to tell the man something. It poured from his mouth without his consent, spilling out onto the puddle-strewn ground with finality.

“I’m no musketeer; they betrayed me and I hate them for it.”

Vadim smiled and nodded and pointed at the warm stew that had appeared in d’Artagnan’s hand.

“Eat your soup.”

D’Artagnan lifted the small mouse that was floating in the liquid up from the bowl and lowered it slowly toward his mouth, a sheep’s bleat echoing from his lips, but before he could take a single bite he was in the manor again, watching it burn down around him as his throat was ripped raw from the anguished screams of “Athos!” that tore from his lungs.

* * *

Aramis pushed open the door to the infirmary, eyes immediately jumping to d’Artagnan - a dark figure on the hard bed, as still and unmoving as the moment they had left him for Treville’s speech. Porthos was behind him, a comforting presence as Aramis moved toward their youngest brother and sat, staring down at d’Artagnan with pained eyes. The marksman was still reeling from the announcement, not quite able to comprehend the idea that somebody else would be filling Treville’s shoes in a few weeks’ time. It chafed at him and he couldn’t quite explain why, until his words spilled over in an angry slew that grew his headache and served to distract him from the gnawing feeling in his gut because mon dieu, why hadn’t d’Artagnan moved yet?

“He can’t leave.” Aramis was angry and bitter, each word dripping sourly from his mouth. “Treville thinks we want him to leave? Leaving won’t fix what he did; it won’t change this!” Porthos nodded but didn’t respond as he settled himself beside d’Artagnan’s bed. “He’s running away - away from the problems that he caused! And why? Because he thinks it will make us _feel_ better? He needs to stay here and live with what he’s done.” Aramis pulled the bandages away from d’Artagnan’s shoulder and began replacing them, dipping new ones into a cold bowl of water. His hands were shaking, but he moved with a gentleness that was at odds with his angry words. “He has to work to fix what happened! He has to earn back our trust - my trust. He has to -” Aramis dropped down into a chair on the opposite side of the bed, his aching head falling into his hands, shutting out the stinging light around him. “He has to stay. He has to fix this.”

He looked at Porthos then, with burning eyes, face giving way from bitterness to hurt - a deep, aching hurt that betrayed all of his angry words - because no matter what Aramis thought about the truth of the matter, Treville had always been there to clean up after his messes. He had always been around to fix problems and save lives and make a difference. That was what Aramis admired so much: his tenacity and dedication and complete unwillingness to compromise his morals to suit someone else. Now, though, Treville was throwing in the towel, picking up his life and leaving. Why? Because it had gotten too hard for him? It was hard for all of them. They were all to blame, and it wasn’t right that Treville up and left - that he ran from his problems - because he felt guilty or bad or somehow responsible for everything that had happened.

“He has to fix d’Artagnan.”

Because Treville had fixed everything - no task insurmountable - and now he was going to be gone.

Porthos stared back at him, neither accepting or denying, agreeing or disagreeing. He looked at Aramis with a calmness that soothed some of the burning, pounding, gut-wrenching worry that was taking over him, as he focused and pulled apart and latched onto one wretched situation in exchange for a chance to ignore the even bigger one lying in front of them. Aramis stopped another set of angry words from escaping his mouth because he knew what he was doing - and he knew that Porthos understood as well. He was distracting himself from d’Artagnan - channeling his fear and anger and shame into the most convenient of places - and he believed what he was saying, but he didn’t agree - not really - with the feelings that backed it up.

“’Ow’s ‘e doin’ Aramis?” Porthos asked quietly from the other side of the bed - a solid rock in a neverending ocean of turmoil; a striking python that sank its fangs into the truth until it was pulled into the light or you died from the poison. “Did the bath ‘elp ‘im any?”

Aramis placed his palm gently against the Gascon’s flesh, nodding in approval when he felt only clammy, damp, slightly warm skin, nothing like the fiery heat from hours before. He smiled: his first real smile in days, lighting up his face and spilling over until the joy was sprinkled across Porthos’ expression as well.

“It appears as though his fever has broken; now we have to make sure that it does not come back. I’ll have to change his bandages in a few hours.” Rolling him onto his side, Aramis peeled back the corner of one of the strips of fabric covering d’Artagnan’s back. The deep cut was open and exposed, but it looked clean and uninfected. He moved down to check on the exit wound from the bullet - a straight through and through: lucky after so much misfortune.

“Aramis!” Porthos hissed at him. Something had changed in the tone of his voice, something that made it happy and relieved and light all at once, and Aramis shot his head up, darting quickly to Porthos’ side because he hadn’t dared to hope, even as he dreamed about d’Artagnan waking up so soon after having been returned to them - dreamed about him waking up at all.

D’Artagnan’s eyes were fluttering, squinting against the light, trying to gain focus after so much time in the dark. They rested first on Porthos’ face - something that neither musketeer could place flickering in them - before they moved to looked at Aramis. It was obvious then - when d’Artagnan’s body lurched back almost against its will and the eyes closed from the pain of moving mere centimeters on the bed - it was obvious what that emotion was, having flared up in his eyes the moment they landed on Aramis, appearing with such force before d’Artagnan slipped back into sleep.

D’Artagnan was afraid of them.

Aramis sat, frozen in place as he stared down at the body of their now-sleeping friend, torn between waking him up, because it was he, Aramis, and what did d’Artagnan have to fear from him? and shrinking back into Porthos because this suddenly felt like something that could never be fixed, something that could not be made to make sense, something that would take d’Artagnan from them forever.

He looked at Porthos - so good at remaining calm, so terrible at hiding his emotions - and everything Aramis felt seemed to be reflected back at him through the darker man’s eyes.

“’e woke up,” was all Porthos said, before he turned back to stare at d’Artagnan, a firm sort of determination slamming down onto his face.

D’Artagnan stirred, his hands twitching beside him on the bed as his head moved slightly from side to side. His mouth opened, closed, opened again; and then: “I’m no musketeer; they betrayed me and I hate them for it.”

Aramis shrank back even further from the bedside, as though he had been physically hit. He moved toward Porthos, arms touching in comfort, before he mumbled back, “But did he?”

* * *

The door to the infirmary slid open silently as Athos slipped into the room, creeping quietly toward the edge of d’Artagnan’s bed. His eyes, swollen and dry, adjusted slowly to the darkness, fighting to make out the shapes around him so that he would not awaken Aramis, who was lying in the bed next to d’Artagnan, a still figure in a silent night. Moonlight bit into the darkness as it poured in from the window closest to d’Artagnan’s bed, spilling over onto the sleeping figure of the Gascon and casting him in a pale and haggard glow. The young man’s skin - a mass of discolored blotches, red and purple and blue - peeked out at Athos from under the thin blanket that wrapped around d’Artagnan’s body, a stark contrast to his face: pale and gaunt, but completely devoid of any blemishes.

Athos inched further into the room and wondered how it was possible that after so much injury and suffering and misfortune, d’Artagnan’s head had remained whole and unaffected - at least the visible portions of it. He sank down to his knees beside the bed, his hands - shaking - hovering inches about d’Artagnan’s face before he lowered them slowly, trailing them across closed eyelids, high cheekbones, a firm nose. His touch was feather-light and searching, and once he had started it was almost impossible to stop because he was alive, oh god, he was still alive and the clammy skin and the rising chest and the heat that slipped off d’Artagnan’s skin was a small beacon of hope in the long dark tunnel that Athos had been spiraling into - down, down, down, - until he saw nothing but blackness.

D’Artagnan’s chest stuttered, stopped, and then lifted again, shaking apart under heaving coughs that rattled from his lungs. It made Athos jerk back, his hands once more hovering helplessly in the air; his breath caught in his throat as he waited for d’Artagnan’s breathing to even out. It was him, he could feel it. He was the reason that the previously peaceful, quiet, breathing sleep d’Artagnan had been in moments before he had arrived was slowly starting to break down around him.

Because Athos caused pain and suffering and despair everywhere he turned.

Because Athos killed everything he touched.

Because Athos had caused this - with his lack of faith and his lack of resolve to press on and his lack of strength to keep d’Artagnan safe - and now his youngest brother was dying, and- and- it was his fault. He was the reason that his brother was here. Athos’ head dropped to the bed, pressing gently against d’Artagnan’s forearm as he bit into the fabric of the sheet, muffling the anguished groan that worked its way past his throat. He wanted to tear the room apart, just like he had his small lodgings. He wanted to rip the world to pieces until he found anyone that would dare lay a hand on his family again. He wanted to hug d’Artagnan to him and beat his fists against the bed and beg him to wake up all at the same time, because they - because Athos - needed him.

But he couldn’t do that, for it was what Athos wanted, not d’Artagnan, and he was being selfish, selfish, selfish, putting his own needs before d’Artagnan’s, making out as though Athos needed the comfort and the healing and the friendship. He didn’t need any of those things. What he needed was to stay out of the way - out of d’Artagnan’s life - because he had already killed one younger brother; he did not want to kill another one.

Athos backed slowly toward the exit, his body shaking and his heart more painful with each step he took away from his sleeping companion. He paused at the door, an ‘I’m sorry’ breathed from his lips, before he turned and slipped off into the night, back to a ruined bed in a ruined room in a ruined house.

Back to the broken shambles that lay everywhere he turned.

Far, far away from that room, because he would not be returning.

* * *

A sunset - red and yellow; anger and joy, at war with each other.

A sunset - pink and gold; passion and triumph, waiting to emerge.

A sunset - orange and purple; resolve and ambition, fighting for life.

A sunset - lilac and magenta; purpose and balance, waiting to take its next breath.

A sunrise - blue and purple and d’Artagnan, awake long enough to blink twice and groan.

A sunrise - crimson and scarlet; d’Artagnan struggling to sit up before the pain blacked him out.

A sunrise - salmon and coral; d’Artagnan - calmer this time - a still figure with eyes open for many moments.

A sunrise - lavender and cobalt; d’Artagnan caught by two brothers in the act of waking up.

The soft hues slanted into the room, lighting upon Porthos’ dark hair as he pulled up beside d’Artagnan’s bed, a smile plastered across his face. Aramis was across from him, leaning over d’Artagnan’s body - hesitant and wary of scaring the young man - but still determined to give him the best care possible. Porthos could see it hidden behind Aramis’ eyes; the fear of having d’Artagnan shrink away from him like he had so many days before. Pulling back the bandages on d’Artagnan’s wrists, Aramis checked for infection and methodically replaced them, body tense and stiff.

A flutter of eyelashes grabbed Porthos’ attention and he jerked his head up, his smile more real now than it had been in days. D’Artagnan stared back at him, eyes foggy and bogged down from sleep, but alert, and sweetly, blessedly conscious. The Gascon’s eyes darted back and forth, his heart rate quickening in his chest, but Porthos could see Aramis visibly relax when d’Artagnan did not shrink back from the hand that reached out to touch his forehead, feeling for any traces of heat that might radiate from it.

D’Artagnan coughed - the sound rattling throughout the room - before he sucked in a heaving gasp of air that made his body burn and his eyes water. He looked at Porthos searchingly before his eyes darted to the bedside table where a small glass of water sat, waiting for the moment when d’Artagnan could finally drink it.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis whispered, speaking quietly so as not to startle him, “How do you feel?”

A faint wheezing escaped d’Artagnan open mouth as he tried to respond, tongue dry and swollen, adrenaline still rushing through his body. “Thirsty.”

It was hard to make out what was being said, but Porthos understood as he moved to prop d’Artagnan up - gasps of pain the only sound to accompany the rustling of the sheets - before he let d’Artagnan gratefully suck down a few gulps of water, his thirst growing with each sip. Aramis reached out before the glass was half empty and pulled it away from d’Artagnan’s lips, placing it down on the other side of the bed.

“You have to take things slow, d’Artagnan. If you drink too much at once, you’ll make yourself sick.” D’Artagnan could only blink owlishly before Aramis continued, “Are you hungry? We haven’t been able to give you much more than some water and a few mouthfuls of soup every few hours, so I’d be surprised if you weren’t.” Aramis turned his head to look imploringly at Porthos. “We can get you something to eat, if you’d like. Some hearty broth would do you good right now.”

D’Artagnan nodded and Porthos was up and across the room instantly, heading to the kitchens where Aramis had put aside some chicken broth for the moment d’Artagnan was awake enough to eat. He would have to find Athos after they settled d’Artagnan down: this was something that couldn’t be missed. D’Artagnan getting better and Athos not being there to see him recover -- what would that do to them? Grabbing the cold bowl of broth from the tabletop, Porthos worked his way back to the room.

He was exhausted, running back and forth between Athos and Aramis, trying to keep one from drowning in a barrel of wine and the other from working himself into exhaustion. Refusing to come by, Athos had been receiving everything he knew about d’Artagnan’s condition from Porthos. It grated, honestly, that Athos couldn’t pick himself up off his floor long enough to drag his body into the infirmary to see a brother who - for the last week - had been close enough to dying that Porthos could have sworn he saw a shadow waiting in the corner to take his soul away. His fever had broken, and it hadn’t come back, but that didn’t mean that d’Artagnan was going to make it.

Not until today at least, when Porthos had looked into d’Artagnan’s eyes and seen something - some light that should have been crushed by all of the dark that he had endured - shining through all of the pain and the hurt and the suffering.

Slipping back into the room, Porthos settled down beside d’Artagnan’s bed, passing the bowl to Aramis so that he could begin feeding the younger man. The first bite had d’Artagnan hesitating, careful and cautious, before he began to suck each spoonful down greedily - bland and cold as it was - only slowing when Aramis threatened to stop feeding him.

The bowl empty, d’Artagnan’s eyes drooping, he leaned back - exhausted and in pain - slipping into another bout of nightmare filled sleep. Porthos looked on, wondering how d’Artagnan had possible managed to survive - to fight - long enough that he was able to come back to them, frightened and broken, but alive. Aramis shuffled around the room, pulling the blinds closed to make it as dark as possible.

Picking himself off of the chair, Porthos inched his way to the door - a last ditch attempt to bring their final brother into the warm fold that had enveloped them all in the past hour. D’Artagnan mumbled, “Where’s Athos?” before his breathing evened out and he fell asleep, tired and disoriented, but full.

Porthos huffed in annoyance. That was the question, wasn’t it? Where was Athos? Not just physically - although it had become a definite chore to find the drunken musketeer - but mentally as well.

And who was going to be the one to tell d’Artagnan everything that was going on?

Who was going to be the one to tell d’Artagnan that Athos was refusing to come back?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* okay, here goes nothing...
> 
> I am back! After ten long months of writing anything but this, I have returned to complete this horribly depressing tale of woe. 
> 
> A few quick housekeeping notes so that the story still makes sense: I have completely rewritten the first two chapters and have now condensed them together so that they make up only the first chapter. I have also slightly modified a portion of the plot throughout the entire story so that d'Artagnan's reaction to Treville's charges is more plausible. I don't actually think that you have to go back and read the whole thing for it to still make sense, as it is mostly addressed in this chapter, but the general nature of the change is that Treville asked d'Artagnan to step back from his mission infiltrating the slavery ring and d'Artagnan went against his orders to continue the mission, which technically mean that anything he did while working with the ring after Treville told him to pull out would not have been sanctioned by the crown and therefore would be mean that d'Artagnan would be punished like any other criminal. 
> 
> This has not been beta-d yet! So any mistakes that you notice are entirely my own. Feel free to give me as much feedback as possible, constructive or otherwise, as I am always trying to grow as a writer. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for waiting so long!
> 
> I'd love to hear from you!

D’Artagnan woke with a start, struggling in the dark to even his breathing enough that his body didn’t burn with each inhale of cold night air. His eyes darted around the room, sweeping in every detail as he scanned back and forth, absorbing as much as he could while fighting off the vibrant images of Fernand’s friendly smile and bright, clean clothes as he peeled d’Artagnan’s skin from his body in thin, dainty strips and passed it off to Bernard.

“Use the water. It helps to clean up the mess.”

D’Artagnan jumped, sending agony spiking through his body, but he couldn’t find the source of Fernand’s voice. Placing pressure on his hands, he tried to heave himself upright, but the screaming pain that issued from his arms only led to more suffering as he shrank back into the mattress, making himself appear as small as possible, because then maybe - god how he hoped - Fernand would not be able to find him. He tried to quiet his breathing as his lungs rattled in his chest; his skin burned and prickled and crawled as if he was being watched, and he could feel eyes peering out at him from the darkness of the room, searching and prying and staring into his soul.

The room around him shifted, and it was as if the world was flat - two-dimensional and off-colour. He was dreaming again - he must have been - because the world wasn’t like this, d’Artagnan knew that - didn’t he? The world around him stared back through a thin veil, somehow there but not real -- not how he was sure it was supposed to feel. He pushed his hands into the fabric of his bed, but the texture came back fuzzy and indistinct, fake and true all at once, because maybe _he_ was the problem. Maybe he was no longer whole and coloured and true.

The panic hit him then - full force and blinding - because there was a movement behind the foggy veil that surrounded everything he looked at, and he couldn’t tell - couldn’t feel - what was truly alive: the world, or him. Eyes loomed over him and he was forced back into his body, the blanket itchier than ever, the night air cold, the anxiety rising fast inside his chest. He pressed himself further down into the bed, ignoring the ever-increasing pain in his back, trying to melt into the fabric until there was nothing left of him.

He pulled away further as the man dropped down into the light that was slipping in from the thin moon outside, and for a moment all d’Artagnan could see was Fernand - waiting with anticipation to play more mind-breaking games - before he blinked and Aramis towered before him. It was worse, in a sense, because at least with Fernand d’Artagnan knew where he stood, but now - with Aramis obviously in the picture and memories from the day before rushing to the forefront of his mind - he didn’t know what to expect.

He was still being charged for slaving: if he wasn’t dead already, and if he had actually managed to get away from Fernand, he would be hanged as soon as he could stand on his own two feet and walk his way to the gallows.

His time was up, and he was desperate, and why was Aramis smiling at him with such compassion and sympathy and understanding when all the Musketeers knew what he had done? What he had been a part of, even as he tried to bring the organization crumbling to its knees? Unless it was a ploy, to get him comfortable and relaxed before they sank their knives in and carved, carved, carved as he hung - swinging - from the rope that was sure to end his life. But that was crazy - insane! - because this was Aramis he was talking about. Sweet, kind, loving Aramis, who gave and gave and gave until he had nothing left; who always looked out for those he called family; who fought for the people he loved.

But was it really so unbelievable? D’Artagnan wasn’t one of them anymore -- that had become obvious the moment Treville delivered his death sentence -- so what was stopping them from taking him apart piece by piece, just like Fernand?

“-tagnan! D’Artagnan, you’re shaking!” Aramis’ hands were touching him now and it burned, burned, _burned_ and he just wanted to scream until his voice failed or his lungs tore apart or his throat closed off, and he couldn’t breathe - why couldn’t he breathe? - but he could feel it now, the trembling in his limbs that vibrated the whole bed underneath him with its strength.

“D’Artagnan, please, you have to calm down. Match your breathing to mine. In, out, in, out. I know it's hard - I’ve been there too - but as long as you keep breathing, everything will work itself out. In, out, in, out.” Aramis’ voice, soothing and calm, slipped into the cracks in his defenses, dropping his heart rate with each slowly steadying breath. D’Artagnan sucked in too much air, coughing so violently that tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as his body rebelled against the pain and the panic rose again - violent and unstoppable - until Aramis steady repetition of ‘In, out’ beat back the rising beast.

Exhausted, he slumped back into the bed, his muscles relaxing as his eyes closed once more. And when he dreamed, he dreamed he was lying on the ground as Bernard poured water onto his face and he became wetter and wetter and wetter, until the water rushed into his mouth and he drowned, his lungs desperate for air, with nothing to help him breathe.

* * *

He woke again to the feeling of his skin ripping apart, the muscles in his hand spasming with pain. He surfaced slowly, floating on the edge of consciousness before being pulled from the last vestiges of his nightmares all in a rush. He jerked reflectively, his body rising up from the bed before dropping back down with a thump, a pained gasp hissed through his lips. Aramis hovered over him, a clean cloth and a roll of fabric clutched in his hands. He smiled down at d’Artagnan, his eyes shrouded in worry but his body relaxed, forced into a state of calm: faked impassiveness that d’Artagnan had seen more times than he could count, when Aramis was tending to someone who was dying: dying and didn’t know it.

D’Artagnan coughed weakly, the ache all over his body making his eyes sting as he opened his mouth to find out, once and for all, why he wasn’t swinging by his neck in the gallows.

“You came back for me.” D’Artagnan blinked. That was certainly not what he had meant to say. He tried again. “How did you find me?” But no, that wasn’t correct either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep anything else humiliating from spilling out; he didn’t need Aramis’ pity - not before, and certainly not now.

Aramis’ smile stretched into a grin, his face splitting into one of the most beautiful sights that d’Artagnan had ever seen: so at odds with the malicious smirk that had graced Fernand’s face.

“Of course we came after you.” Aramis paused, and anyone else may not have noticed the small break, but d’Artagnan know that Aramis was skirting around the question. “How much do you remember?”

The corners of d’Artagnan’s mouth dipped down into a frown, his brow furrowing. How much _did_ he remember? He could recall thirst and swaying and mumbled words and loud sounds, and pain, ripping through his body - but not much in between, and nothing after; nothing until the night before. He remembered Fernand and Bernard and André, and his father, talking to him in the middle of the night, taunting him as he died right before d’Artagnan’s eyes. He remembered his uncle, Henri, and his horse, Jacques, and his pauldron, dropping to the ground, the sound echoing around the garrison. Mostly, he remembered betrayal and the threat of death, and his heart - breaking; spilling onto the ground to mix with his blood.

“Enough; bits and pieces.” Aramis grimaced and reached toward d’Artagnan’s hand. The wrappings around his mutilated fingernails looked half off, and d’Artagnan assumed that Aramis had been changing the bandages when he had awakened. “What happened?”

Another subtle pause, and then: “The man who took you - Fernand - almost killed you. We were barely in time to save your life. We chased you all the way back to Paris, where I found you bleeding out in the captain’s arms.” Aramis tried for a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve already managed to get yourself shot twice. Next time, please dodge the bullets, don’t catch them; bullet holes do have a tendency to kill people, you know.” It was delivered so conversationally - so bluntly - that d’Artagnan huffed out a laugh, caught off guard.

His laughter bled into pained wheezing seconds later. “No jokes,” he gasped out, trying to heave air into his lungs.

Aramis looked abashed, almost guilty. “Sorry.”

D’Artagnan stared off to the side, evening his breathing and peering out into the the middle of the garrison, where he could see men; sword-fighting, eating, laughing. It felt like home, like he had never left - and then Aramis touched his hand again, and the pain brought him back, back to the terror and the screaming and the sound of snapping bones. He opened his mouth, to beg Aramis to ‘ _Please, stop!_ ’ - but what came out this time was four simple words to the same effect.

“When do I hang?”

Aramis’ fingers fumbled, scarping harshly against the faint beginnings of nail growth on d’Artagnan’s fingers before his hands dropped away. To d’Artagnan, Aramis looked devastatingly sad, and he couldn’t understand why; it was as if he had killed a puppy - _slit my poor, sweet dog's throat,_ Fernand whispered in d’Artagnan’s ear - or trampled Aramis’ beloved hat.

“Hang?” he questioned faintly.

D’Artagnan gave a jerky nod. It was almost impossible, but he finally managed to mumble out, “Yes, for the slaving.” He was aiming for strength, oneness with his fate, but his air of serenity was quickly ruined by another bough of coughing, his lungs like trembling balls of pain in his chest.

Aramis looked at him; concerned, confused. “For the slaving?” he echoed again, and this parroting act was getting old. All d’Artagnan wanted to know was how long he had to live, and _\- why, damn it! -_ why he was being cared for if they were just going to kill him anyway.

Rising to hover beside the bed, Aramis stared down at d’Artagnan, who had to fight the urge to shift uncomfortably under the marksman’s gaze. “Yes, hang for the slaving.” Aramis muttered again, and then he was turning quickly and moving toward the door, trying to escape into the hustle and bustle of the outside noise. “Good question, good question. Stay right there.” He opened the door and stepped out into the court yard, sound pouring into the room. Without pausing or looking over his shoulder he called, “I’ll be right back,” and the door swung shut behind him, slamming into place.

The sound reminded d’Artagnan of the noise made when the floor beneath a prisoner’s body dropped away - down, down, down - until the cracking of their breaking necks - _his_ breaking neck - cut through the chattering crowds of people.

* * *

“He thinks he’s going to hang,” Aramis hissed at Porthos.

“An’ did ye tell ‘im anythin’ differently?” Porthos asked back.

Aramis paused. He had been so shocked - and honestly, sadder than he had any right to be - at the idea that d’Artagnan believed they would hang him - _him;_ their light and heart and soul - that he had left the room as quickly as possible; left to find Athos, because _God_ , he needed to talk to the boy before any hope of mending their relationship crumbled at their feet.

It was no surprise when Athos - drunk and in desperate need of a shower - waved Aramis in Porthos’ direction and managed to disappear before Aramis could say any more.

Aramis cast his gaze off to the side to avoid Porthos’ eyes. “Well, technically, if we’re being specific I-”

“Ran screamin’ from the room with your tail between your legs?”

“There’s no need to word it in such a crude fashion,” Aramis sniffed indigently, “but yes, that’s the whole of it.”

Porthos eyed Aramis, scanning over his body for any signs of stress or fatigue. The marksman’s shoulders sagged noticeably, his body seeming to crumble into itself as the humor drained from his face. “When was the last time ya slept?” Porthos murmured quietly, sliding closer to Aramis’ side. He steered the man to a nearby bench, Aramis leaning against him, exhaustion sweeping through Aramis’ body.

“What day is it?” Aramis questioned back, and Porthos could not tell whether Aramis was serious or trying to lighten the mood with sleep-deprived levity.

“A Tuesday.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes questioningly. “Are you certain? Where did Monday go?”

Porthos frowned in Aramis’ direction. “Ya can’t keep doin’ this to yourself. At some point, ya need to sleep.”

Aramis waved him off with a flick of his hand. “What need do I have for sleeping?” He asked jokingly, but underneath it all Porthos could see that he believed it, believed that lack of care for himself was a small price to pay for d’Artagnan’s recovery. “Besides, Athos sleeps enough for the both of us.” Porthos refused to acknowledge that statement with a comment.

“Ya need to sleep, Aramis.”

“Name one reason,” Aramis retorted indigently, and for a physician, he was one of the worst patients that Porthos had ever met.

It took everything in him not to pray for patience. “Would ya like your reasons alphabetically or by order of importance?”

Aramis’ sly retort was stifled by a yawn that cracked his jaw. “If you insist on being by d’Artagnan’s side at all time I won’t stop ya, but you’re going back there to sleep.” Porthos looked at him calmly, kindness and concern shining in his eyes, but his voice was firm.

Aramis hesitated, obviously weighing his options. Porthos knew the deal was a fair compromise, and, when Aramis finally gave a jerky nod of assent, he pulled Aramis to his feet and began to usher him toward the infirmary.

“And who’s going to tell d’Artagnan about Henri? Or Treville for that matter? He’s only going to keep asking more questions.” Aramis gazed at him imploringly. “Usually I’d say we leave that one up to Athos, but you know he has no desire to see d’Artagnan.”

Porthos scrubbed a hand tiredly across his face. He was exhausted, taxed emotionally, pushed almost to breaking, but he would be strong - for his brothers. “Athos blames ‘imself, you know this.”

“I _know_ ,” Aramis murmured. “But he’s wrong, and we _need_ him, now more than ever. I need him, you need him, d’Artagnan needs him more than anyone. And what has he done, but drink himself into an early grave and abandon us when we are hurting the most.” He paused, bitter, but after a moment his eyes softened. “He’s hurting, I know that, and I wish I could take it away, or be there for d’Artagnan in the same way that Athos would be, but I- _we_ can’t. I don’t think I can handle the pressure of telling him the truth of what has happened. I can barely stomach the thought of showing him the scars that will be on his back.”

Porthos heart ached. “I will do it. Tonight, before ‘e falls back asleep. You won’t ‘ave to say anything.”

“But will you be okay?” Aramis looked torn.

“I’ll have to be.

* * *

D’Artagnan struggled to stay awake, eyes drifting open and closed as he waited for Aramis to return. It was a cruel game they were playing, treating him as an equal, healing him and loving him and lying to him. His body settled into a dull roar of pain, background noise to his racing thoughts. He just wanted to know what was happening, wanted everything explained before the feeling of _not_ knowing drove him mad.

And where was Athos? He was the only flaw in an otherwise beautiful plan of deception. If they had actually, truly changed their tune, if Treville had taken back the twisted version of fact that he had shared with the garrison, Athos would be here, watching him and supporting him and taking care of him, just like Aramis and Porthos.

The door creaked open slightly, and d’Artagnan shifted his head as much as he could before the burning sensations in his back became too much for him to handle. He could see Porthos and Aramis approaching from the corner of his eyes, shifting over so that they were more in view, and he hated the way his breath rattled in his chest, the way his body screamed out his weakness even in his breathing.

“’Ow are you feelin’?” Porthos rumbled lowly.

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows, a silent acknowledgment of the questions stupidity. He froze when he realized what he had done, when he realized that he was treating them as though they were still brothers, but Aramis and Porthos stared at him in what looked, oddly enough, like wonder, and then Porthos was laughing, deep bellyaching laughs that filled the room up with warmth.

“That’s the d’Artagnan that I remember. You’re right pup, it was a silly question.” He sank down into the chair beside d’Artagnan’s bed, exchanging a look with Aramis, who moved to the other bed against the wall and settled himself down grudgingly. D’Artagnan was tired of small talk.

“So, what’s the answer then, Aramis? When will it happen?” d’Artagnan stared on steadily, the small quiver in his voice unmentioned by all. He would take what was coming to him with courage. He would not shrink from his fate.

“You know you did nothing wrong, right d’Artagnan?” Porthos was the one to answer. “After you left, we found Treville, demanded that he tell us everything, and then set off after you immediately. Treville was wrong and foolish and he meant well, but he lied. You have nothing _to_ hang for.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I- We are trying to say that nothing Treville said shall come to pass. You will not hang. All of your imagined sins are forgotten.”

Something small sparked in d'Artagnan's chest, a tiny flicker of light that he had not felt in many days. "I don't understand. You're saying that this, everything that has happened to me in the last few weeks, has been for nothing? That Fernand found me because Treville lied?" d'Artagnan shivered; just thinking the name set his teeth on edge. "And my uncle, who is going to help his village now that I am gone? Not that I was any help to begin with." Everything d'Artagnan longed to say was spilling out before he could stop it. "And you, believing Treville? I thought- I thought- but-." D'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut forcefully, trying to hold back his overflowing emotions. "I was just following orders, just doing what I was told, until- But, Treville was right, in the end. I didn't stop. Didn't step back when I was told too. I had a hand in sending some of those slaves across to the New World. I did… terrible things." D'Artagnan stared off into the distance. "All those lives."

Porthos shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Aramis looked on, miserable. The quiet was broken by d’Artagnan’s coughing.

“Maybe it would be better if Treville explained this all to you, before ‘e leaves,” Porthos said, rising from his seat.

“Leaves? Where is he going?” d’Artagnan was more confused than before. His questions still floated around the room, unanswered.

Aramis adjusted himself on the bed, grabbing d’Artagnan’s attention. “You should rest, d’Artagnan, you need the sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep, I want to know what is happening. And where is Athos? If you mean what you say about me no longer having a trial, than why is he not here as well?”

The silence that filled the room was uncomfortable, long and loud.

D’Artagnan’s eyes sagged closed, and it took all of his remaining strength to force them open again.

“You’re tired.” Porthos had somehow made it to the door of the infirmary in the time that it took d’Artagnan to blink, and Aramis was under the blankets of the other bed. Noticing that d’Artagnan’s eyes were open again, Porthos said, “I will do my best to bring Treville when you next wake up to explain everything to you. For now, just recover your strength.”

“But-,” d’Artagnan felt suddenly very cold, ignored and dismissed and small, like a child that had stumbled across a conversation that the adults thought they wouldn’t understand. “Where is Athos?” His voice was tinier now, sad and lonely and forgotten.

“Everything will make sense in the morning, d’Artagnan; I promise,” Aramis said, as Porthos nodded from the other side of the room.

“Exactly, now, both of ya, sleep.”

And d’Artagnan was left, confused and concerned and questioning, the curtains draw and Aramis snoring gently beside him.

* * *

“Athos.” Porthos’ words were like a knife cutting through the hazy drunkenness that enveloped Athos’ mind. “Stop.” He pulled to a halt, one hand coming out to steady himself against the back of the tavern’s chair. His empty wine glass hung heavy at his side.

“What can you possibly need from me now, Porthos?” Athos was just so tired. He was misery, loathing, hate - a wave of emotion drowning along with his liver, until he was nothing - numbness.

Sweet, blessed, empty numbness.

Except here was Porthos, again, coaxing or begging or demanding or threatening, wanting desperately for Athos to see the product of his failure - the sum total of his protective ability. One younger brother dead, the other lost in a void of pain and memory and fear, screaming out at night, crying so loudly that Athos could hear d’Artagnan’s anguish from where he lay each night in the room next door, awake and waiting, prepared to finish off anyone that would dare try to harm his family.

“’Ow long ‘ave you been ‘ere for?” Athos did not turn around to see the disapproval in Porthos’ eyes.

“Certainly not long enough to have this conversation again.” A frustrated sigh bit through the air.

“We wouldn’t ‘ave to keep meetin’ like this if ya just came to see d’Artagnan, or even Aramis.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t? We _need_ you, Athos. We can’t do this without you. I know how you feel, I do, but it isn’t your fault.”

It was laughable that Porthos thought he understood. There was no one who would be able to understand this: this _feeling_ that gnawed gaping holes through his gut each time he thought of d’Artagnan’s mangled body; the dread, the ‘what if’ that froze him in his sleep in the middle of the night, nightmares of d’Artagnan dead in his arms as he tried to force his body to just _wake up;_ the numb, cold feeling that settled over him like a blanket as he played, over and over again, the never ending reel of mistakes that had gotten them to where they were now.

No, no one would - could - understand.

“You can’t possibly comprehend how I feel.” It came out quietly, almost too faintly for Porthos to catch.

“And why is that? Because you think that d’Artagnan means more to you than the rest of us? Because you think that somehow you are the only one who is responsible for missing every opportunity to uncover what made 'im so distant? You think that you love 'im more than I do? More than Aramis? Can you possibly fathom, Athos, that this is 'ard for us too?” Athos hunched his shoulders inward, warding off the hard truth of what Porthos was saying, but turned around slowly to face him anyway.

“This _is_ all my fault. I was supposed to protect him, to watch out for him. Ever since fate crossed out paths, I became the person that was gifted with his protection. I failed once with Thomas, and now I’ve failed again.” The wine glass smacked clumsily back onto the table as Porthos’ expression softened. Athos adverted his gaze. He didn’t need pity; not from Porthos, not from anyone.

“You think this is your fault, Athos, I understand that, but if you just come to see 'im. He doesn’t blame you, 'e doesn’t blame _anyone._ Even after everything, 'e’s still d’Artagnan. 'E still needs you.”

“No one needs me, not like this.” Bitter, self-loathing. A mask of anger to hide his pain.

“Yes, we do.” A pause, and then quieter still, “'e’s been asking for you.” Athos looked up, wavered from his resolve. “Please, Athos. Please just- just come back 'ome.” Porthos voice cracked slightly at the end, emotion welling out into the open.

It was enticing, tantalizing even, the thought of being welcomed back with open arms, of seeing d’Artagnan smiling or laughing or maybe, possibly, incomprehensibly, content with Athos’ presence. Porthos stared at him hopefully.

He thought of d’Artagnan, hopefully as well, pride shinning in his eyes as he put on his pauldron for the first time.

He thought of d’Artagnan, heartbroken, pain cloaking his vision as his pauldron thundered into the dust.

He thought of d’Artagnan, betrayed, starving and bleeding and broken, because Athos was too slow, too weak, too ignorant.

And then he thought of his manor, burning to the ground; of his wife, swinging from a tree; of Thomas, dying in his arms; of Aramis and Porthos and Treville and his troops.

He thought of d’Artagnan.

“No.”

* * *

It was well into the following afternoon when d’Artagnan awakened again, the loud hacking of his lungs pulling him into consciousness. The first thing he noticed, beside the now familiar screaming of every fiber in his body, was Aramis as he prodded gently at his right shoulder, which was swollen almost double in size. “I set it back in place a few days ago,” Aramis said, not even looking up at d’Artagnan. “The swelling was so immense that I had to wait and try to bring it down. We’re lucky that I was able to put it back together at all.” He gets out a grunt before Aramis continues. “How are you feeling?”

What kind of question was that? How was he feeling? “Did the carriage run me over before or after I was tortured and shot?” Aramis let out a small huff of laughter, but his eyes looked pained.

“Actually, that’s something that we wanted to talk to you about now that you’re more alert.” He eyed the door. “Treville is up in his office if you will permit me to get him?”

“When have I ever managed to stop you from doing anything before?” d’Artagnan questioned sceptically. He moved to shrugs his shoulders, but thought better of it. Somehow his comment seemed to make Aramis even more upset, but he pushed it aside with a smile.

“I’ll be back in a moment then. No running off while I’m gone.”

“Oh yes, it will be very difficult for me to stay still for such a long amount of time. Do hurry back.” This did elicit a small smile from Aramis as he headed out the infirmary door.

The room was quite while he waited, lonely and without distractions, nothing to take d’Artagnan’s mind off the pain that he was in. He had so many questions, and all he wanted was for Treville to come back as quickly as possible to answer them. His time with Fernand was a blur, his return with Henri even more disjointed. He felt as though there should be some relief for him, some calm or gratitude or, possibly, even joy, but all he could feel was emptiness. The charges had been dropped, he remembered at least that much from his last conversation with Aramis and Porthos, but beyond that he was lost. Where did he stand in the eyes off his friends? In the ranks of the musketeers?

The door swung open forcefully, jarring him out of his thoughts. Treville stepped into the room, trailed by both Aramis and Porthos. For a moment, d’Artagnan scanned the area behind them, eyes searching out Athos amid the other men in the courtyard, before the door was closed once more.

“D’Artagnan, how are you feeling?” Treville asked. He sounded almost hesitant, guilty, but d’Artagnan brushed the thought aside. Treville had nothing to apologize for. He alone had been the one to take on the mission. He alone had managed to ruin it so miserably. He alone had refused to back down when the danger had increased, when he had been asked to step back and had refused direct orders to cease his investigation. And, when he had climbed the ranks, when he had traded lives and traded souls just for information, that alone was his fault as well.

That alone was his burden to bear, his crimes to pay for, his cross to carry.

“Confused, sir. I don’t understand what has been happening recently.” Both Aramis and Porthos looked insistently at Treville as he shifted uncomfortably at the foot of the bed. “I heard that you were leaving?”

“Yes, I have decided to resign given recent events.”

“But… why?”

Treville squared his shoulders, a man entering the battle field one last time. “I have something to say before we continue. I want it to be known now, that I am deeply, truly sorry for all of the suffering that I have brought upon you, and that I have done - am doing - whatever I can to make it right. That is why I am resigning. For my monumental lapse in judgment, for the trust that I have managed to break with not just you, but all of my men.”

“I still don’t understand, sir. You did nothing wrong. I sold those slaves. That was on me.” D’Artagnan’s eyes shifted to scan Porthos face, looking for any trace of hurt, of wariness.

“You were under orders.”

“But not after, not-” He broke off and swallowed, throat dry as desert sand. “You told me to stop, to step back, and I didn’t. I disobeyed a direct order. Is that not why you charged me with slaving?”

“No.” Treville’s voice was firm, convicted. “I charged you with slaving in an attempt to get you to leave. The ring was getting suspicious, riled up, and you weren’t backing down. That was the only reason I asked you to extract yourself from your cover in the first place. I wanted you safe, and I couldn’t see another way to force you to leave.”

 _But why? Why not let him know?_ d’Artagnan wondered. _I would have stopped._ Except he wouldn’t have, not really. Even he knew that.

“So you saved my life?” d’Artagnan said instead. “You risked everything: the operation, your other undercover musketeers, all of the progress that had been made to bring down the ring, just to save me?”

“But in doing so, I almost got you killed anyway.” And wasn’t that just the most ironic of circumstance? That no matter where d’Artagnan turned his punishment for his crimes would be waiting for him.

“I still don’t understand why this means that you have to step down. You were perfectly justified in charging me, even without the pure motives that you state, sir. You saved my life, and now you want to leave?”

“I made a terrible mistake. I put your life in even more danger than it already was. Even the incident with your uncle was my fault.”

But that made no sense. It was Fernand who had taken him. And where was his uncle? Should he not still be here after all of the work that he had done brining d’Artagnan home?

“My Uncle, sir? What of him?”

“There is no delicate way to say this, but your uncle is the cause of the terrible suffering that you endured under Fernand.” Off to the side, Aramis eyes darkened. “When I was much younger, before I had even become a Capitan of the Guard, I killed a man. He was no older than you are now, but he was positioned high up in the slaving rings, a son of one of the ring leaders. There were extenuating circumstance, his life or mine, and I did what I had to do. The man’s father was named Henri, the same Henri who is your Uncle, and ever since, I have had a target on my back, while I was completely unaware. You were drawn into this through bad luck and circumstance, through my ignorance and determination to bury my head in the sand, even when I could feel that something was not right.

“Your Uncle saw us together one day, and realized that I valued my men more than I valued my life. He saw that you were important to me, that taking you from me would be more of a revenge than ending me himself. He found out that you were a musketeer and though you were family, blood, my blood, meant more to him than yours. He called for you to come to his aid, made up a ruse that would draw you out into the countryside, hoping that you would bring more men with you, and when you did not, he had Fernand play with you like a puppet until he was able to bring you here.

“From what I have managed to gather since he had been in custody, the original plan was that he would take many of my men captive in an attempt to force me out of the city so that he could end me, and you all, with less of a chance of being caught. When that plan failed him, he planned instead to use you as bait to draw out more of my men, and when that failed as well, because no one but Athos, Aramis and Porthos were looking for you, he ‘rescued’ you himself and brought you back to the city so that he would be able to have direct access to me.

“He brought you into the compound and, when I had taken you into my arms, he saw how distressed I was with your suffering, as though you were a child of my own. Instead of shooting at me like he had intended, he shot you in an attempt to end your life, so that I too would know what it was like to lose a child. A life for a life.”

D’Artagnan listened to the tale silently, saying nothing. What was there to say to such a life altering story?

“Athos and Porthos, having chased you all the way back from Fernand’s house, hunted down Henri as he tried to flee, capturing him and eventually delivering him to the holding cells in the Bastille, while Aramis set to work trying to save your life. The next day I resigned, and since we have been waiting to see if you would survive through each night. In the meantime, I have been attempting to move up Henri’s trial, so that punishment can be meted out as soon as possible.” Treville trailed to a stop, nothing left to do but wait for a response from d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan continued to lay in silence, running over the words again and again in his mind, but never really putting all of the pieces together. The three men around the room looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear what he had to say. The more he thought about it, the more panicked he became, until the breath in his chested rushed in and out too fast for him to gather enough oxygen. Aramis rushed to his bedside, d’Artagnan’s distress obvious.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk, but Aramis seemed to know instinctively that d’Artagnan wanted Treville to leave as d’Artagnan flicked his eyes helplessly between the two men.

“Capitan, can you please come back later?” Aramis intoned forcefully, leaning down at d’Artagnan’s side. “I believe that d’Artagnan needs a few moments to absorb what you have just told him.”

D’Artagnan ignored the rest of the conversation, focusing instead on trying to force air back into his burning lungs.

Why was it so hard to breath? Infants did it all the time, so why couldn’t he?

His skin tingled, hypersensitive against the coarse fabric of the sheets, and he jumped violently when a hand was rested upon his shoulder, drawing his attention. It was Porthos, talking to him in deep, soothing tones, breathing slowly for him, something for d’Artagnan to match his own uncooperative lungs to.

InOutInOutInOutInOutInOut.

In, Out, In, Out, In, Out, In, Out, In, Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He could feel the grounding coolness of a wash cloth as it was dabbed on his brow, relaxing him even more, giving him something to hold onto in the strange, slipping world that he was in.

He pushed every thought of his uncle from his mind, of the news and betrayal and suffering. God, he was just so tired. D’Artagnan breathed in a fresh bought of air, his lungs filling so that his whole torso screamed with the pain of expanding.

“Just rest, d’Artagnan. We’re ‘ere for you.” He heard, distant, like a far off bird in the sky.

“We will never leave you again.”

And he believed them, he truly did, until he closed his eyes and the nightmares started.

* * *

Athos slipped into the infirmary, closing the door quietly behind him. It was night, the moon casting shadows all around, black images that flickered with the passing of musketeers on night patrol. He had been awake for hours, listening and watching, looking for any sign of a disturbance in the yard, protecting d’Artagnan in the front of his mind. It was illogical, irrational, but every night he took up residence in the room beside the infirmary and waited, knowing that Henri was locked away, but worried none the less.

He was tired, weary, his bones aching from so many sleepless nights and wakeful, alcoholic days. His eyes burned, dry and red, and he had closed them for a moment, a second, before the screaming started. Loud and hoarse and cutting, it bit through the silent cloak of velvet that blanketed Paris, picking up in volume and then dropping off into quiet mumblings before starting up again, over and over. It came through the walls, night after night, calling Athos to go over to d’Artagnan, to check on him and make sure that he was okay. He had, the first few evenings that it had happened, but each time d’Artagnan slept, twitching and flinching and muttering pleas into the emptiness of his room and Athos could do nothing to stop the nightmares that plagued him.

Tonight, somehow, was different. Maybe it was the way that d’Artagnan called out Athos name into the darkness, sad and lost and broken, or the slowly dwindling reserve of Athos convictions, snapping apart for the last time, but Athos could hold off no more. He stood, silent at the foot of the bed, watching d’Artagnan try to fold into himself as he slept, pain contorting his features as he moved his body, shrinking back from imagined blows.

Hesitant, an unseen force trying to hold him back, Athos moved slowly to the side of the bed, each step more weighted as he neared d’Artagnan’s head. His voice caught in his throat, and d’Artagnan jerked again, a moan of terror bursting from his lips, rasping off into a hacking cough that made Athos cringe. D’Artagnan’s head whipped from one side to the other, and something damp on his cheeks caught the light from the moon outside - shining tear tracks like glittering caverns carved into his skin. His chest rattled, wheezed and “No. Please. Don’t go. Please. I’m sorry,” tumbled out in a jumble of syllables, repeating like a broken record. 

D’Artagnan coughed, throaty and wet, before he froze in place on the bed, still as a ghost. Athos leaned forward, looking to make sure that d’Artagnan was still breathing, still alive. He caught the gentle rise and fall of d’Artagnan’s chest beneath the fabric, and relaxing, pulled back slightly. D’Artagnan was fine; it was okay; Athos could go now, if he wanted, but he had as little desire to leave as he had motivation to come, and when another savage cough tore at d’Artagnan’s throat, he sank into the chair beside the bed, only planning to stay for a moment.

Athos reached forward, grabbing the towel that rested upon d’Artagnan’s brow and soaking it in cold water, placing it back on the Gascon’s forehead. As he pulled his hands away, a oddly pitched wheezing sound escaped from d’Artagnan’s mouth and his eyes flew open, bright and scared and confused. They flickered around the room, searching out invisible hands or faces or chains, Athos didn’t know, and then they alighted on Athos’ face - calming, relaxing - before drifting closed again.

That was it, Athos cue to leave. He climbed slowly to his feet, trying to make as little sound as possible so as not to awaken d’Artagnan again. Inching around the chair, Athos moved for the door when he felt eyes upon his back.

“Stay, please.”

Athos turned back, his movements controlled, ready to flee at the first sign of distress caused by his presence, but there was nothing but contentment in d’Artagnan’s eyes. Athos hovered, neither moving to sit back down nor to leave.

“Could you sing to me? The way you did all those months ago when I was sick?” d’Artagnan asked the question shyly and Athos started, surprised. He had thought that d’Artagnan had been sleeping, distressed, and the best way that he could think of to hold the nightmares at bay was an old trick that he had used on Thomas, a way to get him to sleep when he was hunted by the monsters in his mind. “Please?” d’Artagnan’s expression was changing, moving from shy to awkward to embarrassed, but this was something that Athos could do, something that he could give d’Artagnan without any chance of causing him harm.

Athos slid back into the chair, pulling it closer to the edge of the bed. “Yes.” Reaching his hand forward, he pushed the matted locks of d’Artagnan’s hair from his face, smoothing back his bangs. D’Artagnan’s eyes closed again, his breathing evening out as Athos ran his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair and sang to him the song that Athos mother used to sing to him years before.

The night held no more nightmares for d’Artagnan. When he awakened, Athos was gone, and d’Artagnan wondered if he had really been there at all.


End file.
